


he takes (and he takes and he takes)

by threefundamentaltruths



Series: a new scene opens [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - John Laurens Lives, Biblical References, Canon Era, Epistolary, F/M, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Parent-Child Relationship, Period-Typical Homophobia, Satisfied AU, Scripture References, The Story of Tonight (Reprise) AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-25 19:49:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 48,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7545715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threefundamentaltruths/pseuds/threefundamentaltruths
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Those whom God has joined together let no man put asunder."</p><p>It’s a miracle he doesn’t laugh at that part of the rite, because there will always be three people in their marriage – the two of them and the man who brought them together, love of whom drove them to seek comfort in each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knew very well what might happen when he tumbled into bed with Angelica Schuyler after Alexander’s wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from “Wait for It.” Hamilton AU canon divergence/alternate history for several reasons you'll see throughout. Mix of Hamilton events and historical events. Quotes/lyrics from Hamilton, as well as quotes from some real letters with some alteration(s) and rearrangement(s) and sometimes placed in different contexts or credited to different authors and recipients. More tags to be added. 
> 
> I own nothing.

_February 1781_

“And which of your new relations has written you?” he asks Alexander cheerfully as he enters their shared tent.

 

“My favorite older sister,” Alexander says with a fond smile, in a tone that sounds rather like he is quoting her. “She sends her greetings, by the way.”

 

“Oh,” he says in a voice that is, to his own ears, very strained.

 

Alexander adjusts his glasses and reads off-handedly, “ _Be sure to give your dear Laurens my fondest regards and tell him how very much I enjoyed his company at your wedding_.” His brows rise. “ _We do hope to have him with us in New York City again soon, and most certainly before autumn. You must tell him exactly so, mon_ _cher frère._ ”  

“That is – that is very kind,” he manages.

And very foolish. The letter might have gotten lost, Alexander might never have mentioned anything to him despite her insistence upon it, _he_ might not have realized what she meant . . .

 

No. He knew very well what might happen when he tumbled into bed with Angelica Schuyler after Alexander’s wedding, and he can count. When he’d risen from her bed, he’d even reminded her that he is to go to France, so she’d be sure to get word to him before that if –

 

He must ask Washington for leave, so he can do his duty by – “Tell Miss Schuyler that she may – No, that she _can_ depend on it. I’ll be sure to call upon your Eliza and her charming sister before I sail.”  

 

Alexander, who has already begun his reply to his sister-in-law, looks up at him oddly, but – highly unusually – makes no comment despite the question in his eyes.

 

\---

 

He can hardly stand to look at Washington when his commander asks why in the world he is asking for leave when there is so little time left before he is to set sail.

 

“It’s a delicate personal matter, sir, and it cannot wait until my return.” God knows how long he’ll be gone and anything could happen to him – he could be lost at sea, God forbid. “I’ll only be a day or two at most, sir.”

 

Somehow, Washington deduces precisely what he means; he can tell from the unspoken disappointment in the solemn eyes of their martial _paterfamilias_ when he says, “Off with you then, Laurens.”

 

Though John is no Lafayette – who named his son _Georges Washington_ , for God’s sake (the poor boy) – or even Hamilton, it still stings, particularly after his duel with Lee.

 

_Strong words from Lee, someone ought to hold him to it._

 

_I can’t disobey direct orders._

 

_Then I’ll do it. Alexander, you’re the closest friend I’ve got._

_Laurens, do not throw away your shot._

 

He doesn’t regret the duel in the slightest, half-agrees with Alexander that he should have shot Lee in the mouth, but he knows Washington is still unhappy with him about it. And now, on top of that, Washington will think him the worst sort of cad.

 

\---

 

“Colonel Laurens to see you, Mrs. Hamilton,” announces a maid when he crosses the Hamiltons’ threshold.

 

“John,” Eliza says familiarly, rising with a wide smile. “It’s very good to see you.”

 

“I promised Alexander I’d call –”

 

“And you’ll stay for supper, of course. I won’t take no for an answer.”

 

“I know better,” he says agreeably.

 

“Good.” She calls for the servant, “Mary, go to my father’s and tell my sister she’s invited to supper tonight and Colonel Laurens will be joining us.”

 

He’d wondered how direct he would have to be. But to be sure – “Which one?”

 

“Angelica, of course.” There is something strange in her sweet smile now. “Peggy has other plans this evening.”

 

\---

 

As it nears supper time, after they’ve exhausted the topics of Alexander, Lafayette, Washington, other mutual acquaintances, his upcoming mission in France, and the challenges of setting up housekeeping as a newly married woman in war time, Eliza asks if he will go fetch Angelica at home.

 

“Of course. I’ll be back soon.”

 

“No need to hurry.”

 

It’s obvious Eliza does not expect him to return.

 

\---

They elope.

 

She, the oldest, wittiest daughter of General Schuyler, and he, the eldest son of a President of the Continental Congress and minister to the Dutch Republic, an aide de camp to General Washington. It’ll be a scandal, the scions of two such elite families eloping.

 

He won’t bear the brunt of it as he goes on to France while Angelica remains in New York. But it doesn’t matter, not really, because she has his ring and his name and the child will be legitimate, and that will have to be enough.

 

\---

 

_I may not live to see our glory, but I’ve seen wonders great and small. ’Cause if the tomcat can get married – if Alexander can get married – there’s hope for our ass after all._

He hadn’t expected to follow the tomcat to the altar quite so quickly. He hadn’t let himself think about it all.

_Those whom God has joined together let no man put asunder._

It’s a miracle he doesn’t laugh at that part of the rite, because there will always be three people in their marriage – the two of them and the man who brought them together, love of whom drove them to seek comfort in each other.

 

\---

 

_December 1780_

 

Alexander and Eliza’s wedding takes place three days after he’s been unanimously elected envoy extraordinary to France. He’d argued for Alexander to be selected instead – in no small part selfishly, in order to separate him from his new bride.

 

Watching his deliriously happy friend makes him unspeakably _un_ happy and damnably disgusted with himself, drives him to drink until he’s nearly blind with alcohol at the reception.

 

_Raise a glass to freedom. Something you will never see again!_

_No matter what she tells you . . ._

_Let’s have another round tonight._

_Raise a glass to the four of us!_

_To the newly not poor of us._

_We’ll tell the story of tonight_

_Let’s have another round –_

 

As a consequence, he’s in a state when Eliza’s older sister discreetly takes him aside to warn him away from Alexander. He’s just returned from a walk, having bid Burr good night as the other man left, presumably to see his married mistress.

 

Angelica Schuyler is surprisingly blunt and, equally surprisingly, betrays no hint of disgust for the feelings most people would think an abomination.

 

He doesn’t confirm it, but he doesn’t bother denying it either. “Not to worry, Miss Schuyler,” he says genially, slurring only slightly. “Congress has charged me to sail for France.”

 

In the next breath, she confesses her own feelings for her sister’s husband. “Lucky you. I’ll have to see them together whenever he’s here.”

 

His face must betray his surprise.

 

“I knew because I saw my feelings in your eyes,” she explains.

 

So even in his inebriated state he hadn’t imagined something not quite right in the maid of honor’s voice and eyes as she’d toasted the bride and groom. He was hearing his own feelings in her words, seeing them reflected in those deep, dark eyes of hers.

 

She looks away, eyes far off. “I’ll never forget the first time I saw his face. I’ve never been the same. Intelligent eyes in a hunger-pang frame –”

 

She describes Alexander so _perfectly_ that he wants to laugh and cry at the same time, but he only listens, transfixed.

 

“When he said hi, I forgot my dang name. He set my heart aflame, every part aflame,” she finishes archly. Then, sadly: “But then I turned and saw my sister’s face and she was helpless. And I knew she was helpless. And her eyes were just helpless. What else could I do?”

 

She is a far better person than he is. In her position, with a real chance, he would not have ceded to anyone. But that’s something he can never have.

 

“I know my sister like I know my own mind. You will never find anyone as trusting or as kind. If I’d told her that I love him, she’d be silently resigned. He’d be mine. She would’ve said, ‘I’m fine.’ She’d be lying.” She sighs. “Of course, he was after me because I’m a Schuyler sister. That would elevate his status. I don’t mean to disparage him; anyone in his position has similar considerations,” she adds, eying him as though she is concerned he may be offended on Alexander’s behalf.

 

He waves a hand dismissively. It’s the truth, after all.

 

“And I had my own considerations. I’m a girl in a world in which my only job is to marry rich. My father has no sons so _I’m_ the one who has to social climb for one. I’m the oldest. Not Eliza, or Peggy. _Me._ And I’d have to have been naïve to set that aside. Maybe that’s why I introduced him to Eliza. And now she’s his bride. Nice going, Angelica,” she scoffs at herself. “I’ve really –” She shakes her head in disbelief. “My goodness, I’ve overstepped. I apologize, Colonel Laurens. I suppose the champagne went straight to my head.”

 

\---

 

_February 1781_

 

He returns his . . . his wife – his _wife_ – to her sister the following day. The sister Alexander believes he chose.

 

_A winter’s ball and the Schuyler sisters are the envy of all. If you can marry a sister, you’re rich, son._

_Is it a question of if, Burr, or which one?_

But it was Angelica who chose for Alexander, and chose also to try to forget her choice in _his_ arms.

 

\---

 

_December 1780_

 

“There’s no need, Miss Schuyler. Who could understand better than I? I have just lost my dearest friend to the delights of the bower.” He cannot, she must realize, be as honest as she. “As we told him earlier, he will never see freedom again, no matter what . . . Mrs. Hamilton tells him.”

“Well then, you must call _me_ by my Christian name if you’re to be my confidante,” she replies, half-flirtatious. A woman unwilling to wallow in her disappointment, then.

 

He thinks he might admire it. “Only if you do the same.”

 

She smiles, just a little bit, and nods.

 

“Well, carry on, Angelica,” he urges. “I’m told I’m a good listener.”

 

“You’d have to be, wouldn’t you, to be Alexander’s _dearest friend_ ,” she says wryly. “Sadly, I think he was right, when we first met. I will never be satisfied.” Her eyes bore into his, serious again. “Will you?”

 

“I have to try. Shouldn’t you?” he asks lowly, willfully changing the tenor of their conversation. “In fact, I’d recommend it.” He strokes a thumb across her cheek.

 

“You forget yourself,” she says faintly, breathily.

 

“Perhaps you should as well.”

 

She sways ever so slightly closer. “Perhaps I will.”

 

When he seizes the moment, lips crashing over hers, her mouth parts easily for him. When she puts her arms about his neck and presses herself against him, he knows that what he is taking is freely given.

\---

 

_February 1781_

 

The only bright spot in his poor father being trapped in the Tower in London is that there will be enough time for his temper to cool after John’s letter reaches him. Cravenly, he appends the news at the very end and briefly considers leaving off mention of the child. It’s early yet.

 

_Will you forgive me, sir, for adding a daughter-in-law to your family without first asking your blessing? I must reserve particulars ‘till I have the pleasure of seeing you. My wife, General Schuyler’s eldest daughter, desires her duty to you and promises soon to give you a grandchild._

_I remain your most dutiful and affectionate J. Laurens_

 

He posts it before returning to headquarters.

 

General Schuyler’s wrath will have to wait, too.

 

\---

 

When he returns to headquarters, he makes no mention of what he’s done, only hands Alexander a letter from Eliza, unopened though he’d been tempted to see if she’d written anything about it, and walks away.

 

\---

 

“Eliza said you had news to share and I must wish you joy, but nothing else. Tell me why,” Alexander demands impatiently not ten minutes later. When he doesn’t say anything, Alexander throws an arm around him, just as John did with Burr at Alexander’s wedding when he wanted the other man to spill his salacious secrets. “ _Tell me._ ”

 

He swallows. It doesn’t feel quite real yet and he’s not sure if he ought to try smiling. “I got married.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first Hamilton fic and one of the most challenging things about this is the mix of (18th century) contemporary language (and our takes on that) with the modern language of the musical. This is probably the chapter that uses the greatest amount of dialogue/lyrics from the musical.
> 
> For the record, any disappointment/anger re: premarital sex and the resulting unplanned pregnancies and quickie weddings is sort of funny/hypocritical. 1) I can't remember the stat, but some surprisingly high percentage of colonial brides were already pregnant when they got married and 2) if Wikipedia is right, General and Mrs. Schuyler got married in September 1755 - only 5 months before Angelica was born in February 1756! 
> 
> Speaking of unplanned pregnancies and quickie weddings, this probably goes without saying, but this story assumes that Laurens isn't married in Hamilton (as opposed to historically), on the basis of his saying in "The Story of Tonight (Reprise)" that Alexander getting married means there's hope for the rest of them. For Lafayette, I went with history.
> 
> Finally, given the lack of pregnancy tests and the like in the 18th century, it may seem fast (mid-December to mid/late February) for Angelica to have concluded definitively that she's pregnant. Assume that she was probably on high alert as soon as she missed one period and pulled the trigger on reaching out the second she felt other symptoms, given the whole soldier-at-war-who-might-die-any-minute thing/upcoming voyage to France. No way was she about to be left twisting in the wind if anything happened to John.


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander goes very still, smile fading as though it had never been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a little concerned about some things in this chapter, but I’m probably never going to be 100% satisfied with it (my Angelica and A.Ham showing), so here it is.

He chances a look at Alexander out of the corner of his eye.

 

Alexander goes very still, smile fading as though it had never been. “You – what?”

 

“I got married,” he says again, more slowly, as though that were the trouble, that he’d spoken too quickly for Alexander to understand. 

 

Alexander removes the arm around his shoulders, throat working until he finally manages to speak. “You got married? You _got_ _married_ ,” he repeats. “But you never – I didn’t – who? Who is she? How did you meet? When?”

 

Alexander’s questions are piling up so quickly he can’t get a word in edgewise.

 

“Someone you knew before the war? Why haven’t you mentioned –”

 

But he’ll have to bite the bullet, tries for a sheepish smile. “Your sister-in-law.”

 

“ _Peggy?_ ”

 

He’d forgotten, a moment, that she had a sister younger than Eliza, that Alexander might think – “Angelica,” he corrects.

 

It’s the first time he’s ever seen Alexander truly speechless and it’s almost frightening as the moments tick by.

 

“You – _you_ and _Angelica_ –” Alexander finally sputters. “I never –” He stops himself. “Why wouldn’t you tell me? She only just wrote, before you left, you remember, and she didn’t say –And you didn’t say anything. Or that you were going to – I would’ve asked Washington –”

 

“We eloped. I could hardly bring you and Lafayette along, even if His Excellency could spare you.”

 

“Still, you could’ve told me. Eliza knew before me!” For a moment, Alexander sounds more like himself, almost playfully indignant. Then he frowns, but his re-settled composure remains. “But why elope? It’s not as if General Schuyler would have refused you her hand. If he let _me_ marry Eliza –”

 

“Wanted to have everything settled before I leave for France.” It’s only half a lie. They _needed_ to.

 

Alexander is talking so rapidly he can’t keep up with him. “The General won’t be happy about it, you know. Well, not that it’s you, you’re an excellent catch even for a Schuyler sister, but the way you went about it. I don’t know that you’ll be able to charm your way into his good graces any time soon. And your father’s in London, in the Tower still. Won’t he be angry that you didn’t wait for him?”

 

Alexander knows well how desperately he’s always wanted to please his father.

 

“I wrote him to explain. My father. He’ll have to understand. And yes, I imagine General Schuyler will be unhappy.”

 

“Then why not wait till you returned? A few months wouldn’t have killed you, you could have had a proper –”

 

“We _couldn’t_ wait,” he interrupts, wanting to be done with Alexander’s questions.

 

Alexander, who, uncharacteristically, _isn’t_ _getting it_.

 

He’s very tired all of a sudden. Then, very quietly, “She’s pregnant.” It’s not as if Alexander won’t figure it out eventually, not with a baby coming “early” after a hasty elopement.

 

Only a half beat passes before he finds himself on the receiving end of his friend’s fist. He’s caught off-guard and loses his footing, stumbling backwards into Washington’s tent and nearly taking it down with him. He stares up at Alexander for a moment in disbelief, running a hand along his aching jaw. “What the _fucking_ –”

 

“You – you – you –”

 

“Yes?” he questions insolently from the ground, suddenly furious. “I what? Dared to have a life that has nothing to do with you?” he demands as he stands, as near as he will go now to what they were and could have been to each other –

 

_Cold in my professions, warm in my friendships, I wish, my dear Laurens, it might be in my power, by action rather than words to convince you that I love you. I shall only tell you that ’till you bade us adieu, I hardly knew the value you had taught my heart to set upon you. Indeed, my friend, it was not well done. You know the opinion I entertain of mankind, and how much it is my desire to preserve myself free from particular attachments, and to keep my happiness independent on the caprice of others. You should not have taken advantage of my sensibility to steal into my affections without my consent. But as you have done it and as we are generally indulgent to those we love, I shall not scruple to pardon the fraud you have committed, on condition that for my sake, if not for your own, you will always continue to merit the partiality, which you have so artfully instilled into me . . ._

He’s certainly done a good job of keeping himself _free from particular attachments_.

_In spite of Schuyler’s black eyes, I have still a part for the public and another for you; so your impatience to have me married is misplaced; a strange cure by the way, as if after matrimony I was to be less devoted than I am now_ . . .

 

“I’ve half a mind to call you out –”

 

 _You’d never_ , he almost says, but then Alexander _would_ and the last thing he wants is another duel, least of all with Alexander facing his pistol rather than his back. And it would just create more gossip, as if the gossip in New York City isn’t already insidious. “On what grounds, you fool?” His actions were not those of a gentleman – not least of all because Angelica had been, unsurprisingly, a virgin – but he’s since done what had to be done to make it right.

 

And what right does _Alexander_ have to be angry? If General Schuyler said the same to him, it would be understandable, how any father might react. At least initially, until he calmed down and made the level-headed assessment that a duel would create an unnecessary fuss if things were otherwise satisfactorily settled. And they are settled; they are _married_.

 

But for Alexander it likely has nothing to do with defending Angelica’s honor and everything to do with his own entitlement.

 

He’s not blind. He didn’t formally meet the Schuyler sisters until after he’d been exchanged, when Alexander and Eliza were already engaged. But he’d witnessed Alexander and Angelica’s first meeting across the room at the ball that changed everything for his friend and had immediately thought she’d be the one he would pursue.

 

As for him, before the exchange that ultimately permitted him to attend the Hamiltons’ wedding, Alexander wrote: _I wish you were at liberty to_ transgress _the bounds of Pennsylvania. I would invite you after the fall to New York to be witness to the_ final consummation _. My Mistress is a good girl, and already loves you because I have told her you are a clever fellow and my friend; but mind, she loves you_ à l’américaine _not_ à la française _._

 

So he wonders a moment – a comic, incongruous thought in midst of a heated argument – if Alexander is only angry that he was not extended a similar invitation, particularly when John’s wife _does_ love him _à_ _la française_.

 

“You have no right to satisfaction.”

“She’s my sister-in-law,” Alexander protests half-heartedly, glaring at him. “And you –”

 

“Married her,” John finishes for him. “I. Married. Her.” _Not you._ He walks away, for once getting the last word.

\----

Of course they make up the breach before he heads to France. They always do. Naturally, Alexander never apologizes for hitting him.

 

“Do try to make her happy, John. You both deserve that. Though I hope matrimony will make you no less devoted a friend to me” are Alexander’s last words on the subject, eyes warm and smile wicked as he utters them.

 

\---

 

He hears from his wife hardly at all, but often, as ever, from Alexander. Alexander has always been a more faithful and frequent correspondent than he is.

 

 _. . . I have sincerely told you, my dear Laurens, that I was happy the commission has been entrusted to you. I have implicit confidence in your talent_ _s and integrity; but in the frankness of friendship allow me to suggest to you one apprehension. It is of the honest warmth of your temper. A politician, my dear friend, must be at all times supple—he must often dissemble. I suspect the Ministry will try your temper; but_ _you must not suffer them to provoke it._

Adieu _, be happy, and let friendship between us be more than a name. His Excellency, Mrs. W., and all the lads send you their love._

_Yours ever, A. Hamilton_

It is the clearest proof he has not lost his place in Alexander’s affections.

 

\---

 

Upon his return from France, he went straight to his commander and his comrades, who welcomed him warmly after his success with the French, but it is not the same until Alexander returns also, after a falling-out with Washington had him sent home for several months.

 

“The family all send their regards – Eliza with all her heart, Peggy very warmly, and our dear father-in-law the General rather gloweringly, of course. I think Eliza may have pinched him under the table to get him to say anything at all,” Alexander adds dryly. “As for the most important personage, no letter from _madame votre épouse_ , I’m afraid, but she wishes you all the glory you dream of and bids you take care.” There is a familiar glint in Alexander’s eyes that he can’t quite place.

 

“Some would say those are contradictory wishes.”

 

“Indeed. With you especially, rash as you are. She also sent some things I told her you might appreciate.”

 

“Such as?” It was his father he’d write to with requests until he was detained in Europe. He’s not thought to ask Angelica for anything.

 

“Alcohol, of course –”

 

“Best of wives, truly.”

 

“I remembered your measurements, so you’ve got new boots, too. Hair powder –”

 

“You didn’t.”

 

“Of course I did. Couldn’t let you wander about with flour in your hair again.”

 

“I’ll kill you.” But there’s no bite to it and Alexander knows it. “And how is she?”

 

“I left her in glowing good health, radiant and resembling nothing so much as one of the pagan mother-goddesses of old.” To one who knows him well, Alexander sounds half-smitten.

 

Isn’t there a commandment against that? _Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife?_ If he were a man who loved his wife, he would be jealous that another man, one who’s spent the last several months in close proximity to her, is so obviously enamored of the mere memory of her, even – perhaps especially – when she’s carrying his child. The man he is, is jealous for other reasons entirely.

 

“I hope to find Eliza the same when we’ve won and gone home.” Alexander is beaming, and –

 

 _Oh._ “Will you?”

 

“She doesn’t want to say anything yet, because it’s early still, but how could I not tell _you_?”

 

He claps Alexander on the back and somehow musters up some genuine happiness for him, happiness at seeing him happy.

 

And then, laboriously, he begins to write. _I hope this letter finds you as well as Hamilton tells me he left you. I must thank you for the thoughtful . . ._

 

\---

 

_October 1781_

 

In the midst of their siege at Yorktown, he receives a letter addressed to _Lt. Col. John Laurens_ in a hand he recognizes from seeing the letters strewn across Alexander’s small desk.

 

 _I hope this letter finds you well, and succeeding in your endeavors. I write to share good tidings: on the 28th of September_ – the day their siege began – _was born your daughter, my niece and namesake. My namesake – an honor worth more to me than my weight in gold._

Of course. What other name would Angelica choose?

_She is a beautiful baby and already a delight to us all, not excepting our dear father, who quite enjoys his new role of grandfather. I confess_ myself _utterly besotted with this precious girl, and Peggy is little better. I would like to say we will endeavor not to spoil her, but I am not in the habit of making promises I cannot keep._

_Angelica is in good health and spirits and wishes me to remember her to you until she can write herself._

_God bless you and keep you. Your affectionate friend, E. Hamilton_

He is a _father_.

Aghast at Eliza’s failure to write him and knowing she has never written John before, Alexander guesses at once the subject. “Tell me,” he demands.

 

He hands over the letter instead.

 

When he is done reading, Alexander grins at him and claps him on the back, eyes sparkling with laughter. “You’ll have your hands full, my friend, if the daughter has half the mother’s charms.” He points out a passage of the letter he had begun to Eliza for the sole purpose of chiding her for _not_ writing him.

 

 _You shall engage shortly to present me with_ a boy _. You will ask me if a girl will not answer the purpose. By no means. I fear, with all the mother’s charms, she may inherit the caprices of her father and then she will enslave, tantalize and plague one half_ _the sex, out of pure regard to which I protest against a daughter. So far from extenuating your offence this would be an aggravation of it._

His eyes slide lower; he has always been a quick reader.

_In an instant, my feelings are changed. My heart disposed to gaiety is at once melted into tenderness. The idea of a smiling infant in my Betsey’s arms calls up all the father in it. In imagination I embrace the mother and embrace the child a thousand times. I can scarce refrain from shedding tears of joy. But I must not indulge these sensations; they are unfit for the boisterous scenes of war and whenever they intrude themselves make me but half a soldier._

Adieu _, my darling wife, my beloved angel._ Adieu.

It is almost painful, reminding him of what he ought to feel, but he pushes the thought aside, focuses on the amusing passage Alexander pointed out and laughs with his friend, reading over his shoulder as he adds a postscript. _Tell our dearest sister that I partake in the joy of the adventure she has made a present of to the world. I expect her to be nothing short of an angel, with all the excellent qualities of both parents and perfections of her namesake._

 

He himself writes back to Eliza, thanking her and inquiring vaguely and politely after her health, and, finally, stiltedly, to Angelica. _I was very happy to receive Eliza’s favor of the 30 th . . . _

 

It will get easier when he sees her again; they are little more than acquaintances now, but will learn to get on together in time.

 

\---

 

But when all is said and all is done, he heads for South Carolina instead of north.

 

There is still so much work to do.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things:
> 
> \- Eliza’s letter was one of the harder letters to write from beginning to end of this story because I have no idea what she sounds like. At least with Laurens, Angelica, and Hamilton we have enough letters to try and get a feel. The tricky thing with those three is how they change now that we’re in a canon divergence/historical AU situation. (And that there’s barely any surviving correspondence between Laurens and Martha Manning for comparison.) Using ellipses in the letters to Angelica after a sentence or two is a reflection of just how awkward it is to write to someone that, when it comes down to it, you barely know. Even if the circumstances of Laurens's marriage to Martha were less than ideal, he at least had known and seemed to like her as a person before that.
> 
> \- I’m terrible at calculating how long it should take letters to get from one place to another in this time period (assuming they don’t get lost, etc.), but it seemed not unreasonable based on how long it took for Alexander to hear about the birth of Angelica’s real-life second son. (The postscript in his letter to Eliza – which I cut short here – is adapted from the postscript he actually wrote to that letter to acknowledge the news.)
> 
> \- The f bombs, along with quotes from musical!letters, are some of the anachronisms I've decided to use.
> 
> \- Even though Laurens is a much better son-in-law on paper than poor bastard orphan Hamilton, Alexander is definitely the favorite. General Schuyler nursing a grudge against JL for eloping with his baby gives me life and I regret nothing.
> 
> \- I had an idea for an AU of this AU. Why?


	3. Interlude 1 (at least I keep his eyes in my life)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliza walks in then and she releases Alexander’s hand like it burns her, feeling more than vaguely guilty, but her wonderful sister – the best of sisters, far better than she deserves – only hurries over to them, guessing at once and getting down beside Alexander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from “Satisfied.” 
> 
> I originally hadn’t planned to feature Angelica’s POV at all, other than posting some scenes from her (and perhaps Alexander’s) perspective as a separate side collection or on tumblr, but plans changed! 
> 
> Tumblr is your3fundamentaltruths for anyone who might be interested.

_May 1781_

 

Eliza really ought to be back from paying her call by now. She’s getting more than a little bit annoyed at her sister’s de –

 

“Oh!” _What –_ And there’s a second. “Oh,” she says, dumbly, again. She’d already felt the baby quicken, the little flutters, but now it feels real in a different way. She rubs at the spot where the baby kicked in disbelief, only looks up at a sudden bang to see Alexander nearly trip over his own feet in the parlor doorway.

 

“I heard – are you all right?”

 

“Fine. Just surprised,” she says, faintly embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

 

“I wasn’t being very productive,” he reassures her. “Otherwise I might not even have noticed. You weren’t especially loud. But are you really all right?”

 

“Only just startled. I promise,” she insists.

 

“By what?” He looks around uncertainly as though he expects some creature to jump out of a corner.

 

She feels herself flush slightly. “The baby kicked.” _And again._

 

“Oh.”

 

“It’s the first time, that it's so strong, I mean.”

 

Slowly, he gives her a small smile. “What’s it like?”

 

“Surreal,” she says honestly. “You can . . . see, if you’d like.” Feel. It’s a terribly inappropriate offer, really, but Eliza’s not here, and Peggy’s at home, and suddenly she feels so _lonely_ at the thought that there’s no one else here to share this with.

 

She’s chosen to take their most comfortable armchair for herself – she’s with child; she’s entitled – so there is nowhere for him to sit beside her and he kneels by her chair instead, waits for her to take his hand and place it in the right spot.

 

“That’s – something,” he says quietly, a thread of wonder in the uncharacteristically ineloquent words as he looks up at her.

 

Eliza walks in then and she releases Alexander’s hand like it burns her, feeling more than vaguely guilty, but her wonderful sister – the best of sisters, far better than she deserves – only hurries over to them, guessing at once, and gets down beside Alexander. “Oh, Angelica,” Eliza breathes, smile as bright as she has ever seen when the baby kicks for her as well.

 

\---

 

Their father never says a word, only acts gruffer than is his wont as her time comes closer, but she knows he’s anxious, will be just as anxious when Eliza has her baby.

 

Angelica and her sisters had come in quick and easy succession, three babies in three years, and then there wasn’t another for three years after Peggy.

 

There were two after Peggy, in fact: twin girls who never drew breath. Their mother breathed her last the same day, and their father never remarried.

 

Angelica is the only one of the Schuyler sisters who actually remembers her.

 

\---

 

_September 1781_

 

Eliza is there from the moment the first pain rips through her. “I sent Peggy away. We don’t want to put her off marriage and motherhood, but there’s no turning back for me,” she teases, rubbing her belly, early on when Angelica notes their younger sister’s absence, when the pain is not yet so bad that she’s incapable of laughter. Eliza is an indefatigable pillar of strength and good cheer through the night, holding her hand, rubbing her back, and brushing back her sweaty hair. She gently reassures her when she cries for their mother, but turns very firm when, at the height of the pain, she begs for death.

 

(She never thought she’d feel so _weak_.)

 

“Lesser women than you have done this many times, over hundreds of years, and lived to tell the tale,” Eliza reminds her sternly. “So will you.”

 

It is exactly what she needs to remind her who she is.

 

When the midwife finally tells her she must bear down, she grits her teeth, but cannot help screaming. Loud and long, it rings in her own ears and likely in those of Eliza and the midwife and her assistant until it blends with an indignant howl she recognizes dimly must be the baby’s, one that rises in volume and increases in fervor after the unmistakable sound of a slap.

 

“I told you,” Eliza whispers, planting a kiss on the crown of her hair.

 

“Is she all right?” she asks, straining to see the midwife’s assistant tend to the baby in a corner of the room near the fire.

 

“How did you know?” Eliza asks in wonder. “The midwife didn’t –”

 

“I just did.” She hadn’t until she said it.

 

\---

 

Smiling, the midwife’s assistant brings the baby over once her bed linens have been stripped and replaced with fresh ones and she herself is tidied and in a clean shift, hair neatly re-braided by Eliza. “She’s a healthy little thing,” she tells them, handing Angelica the wriggling bundle of baby and blankets that is her daughter. _Her daughter._

 

“So what will you call her?” Eliza asks, running a gentle finger over the baby’s cheek.

 

“I’m naming her after the best woman I know.” She looks up from her daughter to give her sister a significant look.

 

Eliza’s eyes swim with tears. “I don’t know that she looks like a Margarita,” she manages.

 

“No false modesty, Betsey.”

 

“Are you trying to make me cry?” Eliza demands in a choked voice.

 

“No. It’s only an added benefit.” She can hear tears in her own voice.

 

\---

 

_October 1781_

 

_. . . Tell our dearest sister that I partake in the joy of the adventure she has made a present of to the world. I expect her to be nothing short of an angel, with all the excellent qualities of both parents and perfections of her namesake._

 

Part of her thinks that Eliza might have spared her reading such a tender letter between husband and wife, as she could not help but see the paragraphs preceding the postscript, knowing she would not be greeted with the same effusive affection – if any – in her own, but Eliza has always shared with her any passages from Alexander's letters that mention her.

 

With a sigh, she opens her own letter.

 

_I was very happy to receive Eliza’s favor of the 30 th. I hope that you continue in the same good health and good spirits of which she wrote, and that the baby is similarly well. Eliza called her beautiful, but I should like a little description when you are able to provide it. Although I have not the pleasure to be well-acquainted with your sister as yet, it follows from the esteem in which you and Hamilton hold her that she is a most excellent lady and thus a worthy example for her namesake, so I must commend your choice of name. _

_I will leave off here so I can send this letter out at the instant opportunity. If you have occasion for money, you can continue to draw upon Messrs. Stewart & Totten, Philadelphia. I will desire them to pay your drafts. Pray give my regards to your father and Peggy. To Eliza I have replied separately. _

_God bless you and Elizabeth. I am yours affectionately, J. Laurens_

 

\---

 

_November 1781_

 

She makes a point of not rushing downstairs with her sister when the maid, knowing she will find Eliza in the nursery with her, runs up to announce “Colonel Hamilton is here!”

 

Eliza didn’t expect him till tomorrow; she’d planned to await him at home.

 

It’s difficult to make herself stay put, but they should have their privacy. _No, be honest, you could barely get through their wedding without gulping down a bottle of champagne and then some, and this might actually be worse._ She sways with the baby, who was startled by the maid’s sudden intrusion, ignores the cheerfully raised voices on the ground floor, and focuses on her daughter.

 

She’s nearly managed to talk herself out of thinking about what’s happening downstairs by the time Elizabeth is calm again, but then she hears the softest of knocks at the door. Peggy, most likely, who’s always afraid of being a disturbance –

 

The door creaks open ever so slightly, just a crack. “May I?”

 

Her heart clenches and she turns to look at him. “Alexander,” she says quietly.

 

“Hi,” he whispers.

 

“It’s good to see you.”

 

“Better to see you,” he says after a pause. “And this is the infamous Elizabeth.”

 

She nods.

 

“May I?” he asks again. He wants to _hold Elizabeth_.

 

She can’t help but hesitate. In the abstract, she never thought she would be especially maternal and she is not, not in the way Eliza will be soon and Peggy too, in the more distant future when she marries. But she is nothing if not fiercely protective of her daughter. There are precious few people she would hand her baby to without hesitation.

 

“I won’t drop her,” Alexander promises, as if reading her mind, a mischievous curl to his lips.

 

“Mind her head,” she orders sternly when she finally eases the baby into his arms.

 

“She looks just like him –”

 

What little hair Elizabeth has already curls just so, and her complexion is her father’s as well; she fully expects that Elizabeth will in time share in his freckles also, if she is anything like her mother and her namesake, rebuffing attempts to shield her from the sun in favor of playing out of doors. 

 

“Only with your eyes,” Alexander says with soft wonder.

 

Elizabeth is perfectly still in Alexander’s arms, staring up at him, unblinking, as though she knows somehow that this is someone important. 

 

He is the one who begins calling her Lizzie.

 

\---

 

“Is Eliza very pleased to have Hamilton back?” Mary Anderson, _née_ Beech, asks eagerly over tea.

 

“Naturally,” she says evenly.

 

“I expect you will be reunited with your husband also, now that the war has been won?” Her so-called friend’s eyes are assessing beneath the too-innocent expression.

 

“Not quite,” she says, still striving for evenness. “He is a loyal son of South Carolina and the redcoats still have Charleston fully in their grasp.” It had been Alexander who’d broken the news to her, proffering another brief letter, not quite able to look her in the eye as he’d done so.

 

“Will you join him there, then, when things have settled?”

 

“Not for the time being. The main house at the family plantation was burned down by king’s men. And, honestly, even if it were standing whole, none of the family are at Mepkin at present; my father-in-law is still imprisoned in the Tower and my sisters-in-law are in France with their aunt and uncle. I hope he’ll come to us when things are in hand in the south, at the very least for a visit with my family before we make more permanent arrangements, to allow some time for the house to be rebuilt. I know Hamilton would be especially delighted to see him again. They are the very best friends,” she adds, returning to safer waters. “I would never have become better acquainted with my husband if not for my dear brother, actually . . .”

 

It isn't a lie.

 

\---

                   

_January 1782_

 

When she sees the myriad emotions in Alexander’s eyes as he looks upon baby Philip for the first time, as he looks at Eliza, who gave him this gift, she sees everything – affection, devotion, gratitude, tenderness, protectiveness, hope – a father ought to feel at such a juncture, and it breaks her heart.

 

_I know my sister like I know my own mind. You will never find anyone as trusting or as kind. If I’d told her that I love him, she’d be silently resigned. He’d be mine._

 

But she did not and he is not, and she fears what she has witnessed is everything she will never have, everything Lizzie will never have.  

 

\---

 

“I look forward to the end of the southern campaign,” Alexander tells her one day after she visits the Hamiltons for supper. He holds Philip, and Eliza is sewing, and it is so domestic and peaceful that she can scarcely reconcile it with the fast-talking, hungry man she matched wits with in dreamlike candlelight.

 

Eliza looks up expectantly from her sewing when she says nothing.

 

“I don’t want to move south,” she confesses. “I don't want to leave you, and –”

 

“You may not have to,” Alexander interrupts. “If Laurens listens to me and joins me in Congress as he should. I have told him: we know each other’s sentiments and our views are the same; having fought side by side to make America free, we should work hand in hand to make her happy. And he can hardly write and fight against slavery from _Mepkin_ once there is no military necessity for freeing –”

 

She starts in surprise. “He is an abolitionist?”

 

Alexander frowns, and she can see something like pity in Eliza's eyes.

 

It stiffens her spine. “It’s only that his father –”

 

“His father no longer participates in the trade,” Alexander says.

 

Add that to the list of things she did not know about her new family, though they are prominent enough that she is surprised she has not heard it spoken of, that the President of the Continental Congress, who made his fortune by the slave trade, has chosen not to continue in that line.

 

“Why?” she asks. “It’s not that I’m opposed,” she adds quickly, seeing the way Alexander’s frown deepens. “I don’t really know what I think, because I haven’t given it much thought. I want to understand.”

 

“Ah. You can read our essays, to start,” he says, frown dissolving.

 

\---

 

Alexander at once warms to the task of educating her on his and her husband’s shared political convictions, and she reads everything he puts in front of her as methodically as she did _Common Sense_ and the Declaration of Independence.

 

It is only then that she begins to understand what motivates the man she married, why the southern campaign is so very important to him, leading into battle these men whom he wishes to free, when he might instead have rested on his laurels, on his successes as an aide to Washington, in diplomatic wrangling with the French, in negotiating Cornwallis’s surrender. All of which has been explained to her secondhand by Alexander, of course.

 

It is . . . something, at least, to know that he does not continue to run headlong into battle solely to run from his responsibility to her, to their daughter, even if she is not so naive as to think that plays no part. Perhaps she sized him up too quickly. Perhaps she has, fortuitously, stumbled across – _stumbled into bed with_ , corrects a wry voice in the back of her mind – another mind at work; perhaps this might, someday, work.

 

\---

 

_September 1782_

 

Her father frowns when a breathless messenger is escorted into the dining room. “What is your business, young man?”

 

“I have a message from General Greene, sir, to be delivered to your residence straightaway.”

 

“Well, give it here, and they will prepare you something to eat and drink in the kitchen.”

 

“Anything of interest to report?” Alexander inquires with polite curiosity after Daddy slices open the envelope and scans the single sheet. “Laurens meant to ask him for –”

 

Brows knit, Daddy interrupts very quietly, “It’s not for me.”

 

“Then –?”

 

“Angelica,” he says softly, handing her the letter.

 

She reaches for it, but it takes her a moment to properly close her fingers around it, morbidly fascinated by the way the color drains from Alexander’s face. 

 

“Don’t look like that,” Daddy commands, sharp and bracing. The words are not meant for her, and she would recognize that even if she didn’t see the way Alexander sits up straighter. “It’s not – he’s not dead.”

 

“Daddy,” Eliza hisses, lacing her fingers through Alexander’s and placing her free hand over Angelica’s.

 

She doesn’t quite read the brief letter, words like _injured_ and _valor_ leaping out at her, ending with a promise to update her on her husband’s condition. It doesn’t sound good, and General Greene sounds apologetic enough that she has to wonder –

 

The moment she puts it down, Alexander snatches it up with greedy fingers, without so much as a by-your-leave. “He’ll be fine,” Alexander says once he’s looked at the letter. “It isn’t a proper action if John isn’t injured.” He’s obviously trying for reassurance, but he sounds so strained that she wonders if he’s read something into the letter she can’t see.

 

“Alexander?” Eliza presses gently.

 

After several silent moments in which he avoids their eyes by angrily attacking his ham with fork and knife as though it has personally offended him, he bursts out, “Greene should never have given him that command. He asked for it from his sickbed, for God’s sake!”

 

She’d been suspicious enough that her husband was different from any number of others who might be attracted to or even love Alexander, that he could actually be a danger to Eliza’s happiness, because of the bonds of affection between the two men, but there had never been anything that gave Alexander away as obviously as his best man’s eyes and behavior at the wedding had him.

 

Now, however, it’s terribly obvious.

 

Not that it matters, not really. It’s Lizzie, not quite a year old, whom she thinks of as she prays things are not so grim as Alexander fears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes:
> 
> \- Remember the reference in the previous chapter to Alexander’s “falling-out with Washington [that] had him sent home for several months?” That follows history more than the musical, because Washington doesn’t send Alexander home due to a letter from Eliza, although she expresses similar sentiments as musical!Eliza did in “That Would Be Enough” before he returns to the army. This also goes with Philip's historical birth date. 
> 
> \- This story goes with the musical regarding the Schuyler family – Angelica, Eliza, and Peggy as the General’s only children, and no appearance by or mention of Mrs. Schuyler, leading me to the conclusion that she is deceased.
> 
> \- The part about having occasion for money in John’s letter comes from a real letter Alexander wrote Eliza right around this time.
> 
> \- This is probably a good time to note that I’m not necessarily exactly imagining the current (or former, in certain cases) actors as the characters, even if certain traits are included (i.e., freckles and curly hair for John, Angelica’s dark hair, etc.), although you may, and they are still supposed to be POC as in the musical. TLDR: Feel free to picture them however you like. Relatedly, Google Images hasn’t exactly been helpful in giving me images of how I envision their daughter . . .
> 
> \- Historically, John not only was at Yorktown, but was also directly involved in negotiating Cornwallis's surrender.


	4. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they first met, he’d understood Alexander so well – too well: he shared the same dreams of dying in a blaze of glory and being remembered as a brave hero rather than as the flawed man he really is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A primarily epistolary chapter.

_January 1782_

_My dear Laurens,_

_My mind has been too little at ease to permit me to write to you sooner, wholly occupied as I have been with domestic affairs. At last I have a moment, though I know not what to write. The whole world is new._

_On the 22nd inst. we welcomed the little stranger at last. He has been named for the General, and he is thriving._

 

 _You will think me maudlin, but you must indulge this new father in his sentiment. I look upon this fine boy – my son, my_ son! _– and I am proud, so very proud, but pride is not the word I’m looking for, my friend. There is so much more inside me now. I think: my father wasn’t around, I_ will be _around for this boy, I fought and survived for this child, and I will do whatever it takes, I will make the world safe and sound for him. And I tell him:_ you will come of age with our young nation. We’ll bleed and fight for you, we’ll make it right for you. If we lay a strong enough foundation, we’ll pass it on to you. We’ll give the world to you, and you’ll blow us all away. _I tell him all this, this infant who looks just as I must have done, as though he will understand me, articulate for him my hopes for our country and, more importantly, for him._

_God bless you._ Adieu.

_Your affectionate Hamilton_

 

\---

 

_September 1782_

 

_If they tell my story, I am either gonna die on the battlefield in glory or rise up!_

When they first met, he’d understood Alexander so well – too well: he shared the same dreams of dying in a blaze of glory and being remembered as a brave hero rather than as the flawed man he really is.

 

_I may not live to see our glory! But I will gladly join the fight! And when our children tell our story . . . They’ll tell the story of tonight!_

 

He lived to see victory at Yorktown, even to negotiate Cornwallis’s surrender, but a year later, he still fights on in South Carolina.

 

 _I am writing to you from a sickbed; but I have just heard that General Greene has ordered a detachment to intercept a party of the British near to Combahee. I shall ask the command, and if refused, I go as a volunteer_ , he writes to Alexander while he is plagued by an ague between engagements.

Adieu _, dear boy. While circumstances place so great a distance between us, I entreat you not to withdraw the_ consolation _of your letters. You know the unalterable sentiments of your affectionate Laurens._

 

Heedless of his own safety and the lingering ague, he follows his letter to Alexander with another to Greene to demand the command.

 

\---

 

He leads his men into one last skirmish – pointlessly, as sacrifices to their commanding officer’s selfish lust for glory, he can admit now that he’s caught a glimpse of the other side, found himself there leading a soldiers’ chorus in fever dreams.

 

He has survived, but too many of his men did not and he thinks of Washington, of the lecture meant for Alexander when he was given his command that _he_ should have learned from.

 

_I was younger than you are now when I was given my first command. I led my men straight into a massacre. I witnessed their deaths firsthand. I made every mistake and felt the shame rise in me. And even now I lie awake . . ._

 

It is the other duty he’s neglected that helps to see him through when he thinks he ought to die of shame, the second occasion on which he thinks he ought not to have survived the disgrace of the day. But he failed his family once – how many times Jemmy’s face flashed before him in his fever dreams! – and he has never forgiven himself for it; he cannot fail again.

 

 _It’s strange,_ he writes once he is able to put quill to paper again after the Combahee, _considering_ – _How little thought I have given her_ , no, that won’t do; it’s too honest, too unkind to commit to writing, even to Alexander – _that I have yet even to lay eyes upon her and so she seems not quite real, but the truth is I had only one thought_ – one unexpected, inexplicable thought – _after the slaughter: I must live. I will not make an orphan of my daughter._

 

\---

A letter from Alexander pre-dating the Combahee reaches him while he is still convalescing.

_. . . Peace made, my dear Laurens, a new scene opens. The object then will be to make our independence a blessing. To do this we must secure our_ union _on solid foundations; a herculean task and to effect which mountains of prejudice must be levelled! It requires all the virtue and all the abilities of the country. Quit your sword, my friend, put on the_ toga _, come to Congress. We know each other’s sentiments, our views are the same: we have fought side by side to make America free, let us hand in hand struggle to make her happy, to lay a strong foundation for my Philip and your Lizzie._

_I am sure you will, as ever, exert yourself for your country; but do not unnecessarily risk one of its most valuable sons in these endeavors. Take as much care of yourself as you ought for the public sake and for the sake of your affectionate Hamilton._

_Think also of the family that awaits you if you find yourself inclined to rashness in your pursuit of honor and glory. We are all together here at The Pastures, and missing only you, my friend, to complete this happy gathering. I_ very much _look forward to seeing you the_ paterfamilias _surrounded with a numerous progeny you accused me of pretension to in your penultimate favor._

_The truth is that you must be, for all our sakes, else Miss Lizzie alone will tyrannize us forever. She has those who love her parents wound about her tiny fingers, which is to say myself above all, and my darling Philip quite howls when they are separated. The General says Betsey would act just the same when forced to part from her beloved Angelica._

_On the subject of my dearest sister_ , _she has spent much of this visit walking the halls of the manse with your daughter’s dear curly head propped on her shoulder, for the darling tyrant is teething and very tearful, so she will add a line or two when Betsey gives her a respite._

_Rest assured I shall not withdraw the_ consolation _of my letters until I have the pleasure of seeing you again._ Adieu _. Yours forever, A. Hamilton_

 

\---

After that, two letters together, one from Angelica and a fairly emotional one from Alexander.

 

 _Your letter_ – to Alexander, he thinks to himself now that that was a slight to her, he will excuse himself as still having been weak and fevered, with a pile of unanswered letters from his friend, whom he knew would share the letter with her – _though understandably brief_ , _was received with much jubilation here in New York, first for the fact of your continued survival and secondly for its being written in your own hand, as a signal of continued improvement. Even the children caught on to the enhancement of the adults’ collective disposition, for they were even more spirited than usual._

_Although you have been in everyone’s thoughts, I am nearly sure your recovery is owed entirely to Eliza’s fervent prayers in particular, for what deity could do other than listen to her? My father and Peggy ask that I convey their best wishes for a full and speedy recovery, as do General and Mrs. Washington and Mr. Mulligan, among others, who were all most distressed to hear what had befallen you in the South._

_I, of course, send you every best wish to hasten your recovery. God bless you. Yours affectionately, A. Laurens_

 

\---

_My dearest Laurens,_

_You know how I endeavor not to be over-solemn, but you must allow me to say first that I heartily thank God for your safe return from the valley of the shadow of death. You cannot conceive of the terror that seized my soul when we first had word from South Carolina nor the apprehension that filled my days and nights until we learned you were improving. Perhaps you can better imagine the great joy I felt upon receiving your latest missive, written in your own hand rather than a report from another._

He shakes his head. He knows precisely how Alexander must have felt, for Alexander had once been mistakenly reported _dead_ to them.

_Regarding Lizzie, your thought was a natural and proper one,_ says Alexander, the orphan whose fatherhood suits him like a well-tailored coat fitted by Mulligan’s expert hands, far better than it will ever fit John. _To think of the child who would be left without her father’s protection if you should have perished. Although it could not have been the same, know that she would nevertheless have had mine always, loved as well as my own Philip for being yours._

 

 _You will see her_ _soon enough when you are well, for I refuse to have you rot in the South forever. You will endeavor to recover quickly and repair to New York, where your affectionate friends await you. I will accept nothing else._

_Until then and always, God bless and preserve you, my friend. Betsey sends her love and keeps you faithfully in her prayers. Of your other well-wishers Angelica will surely tell you._ Adieu.

_Yours forever, A. Hamilton_

\---

 

And yet – and yet . . . he does not join Alexander in Congress. He cannot, because he is pressed to accept another mission to France, one in which he will hopefully meet with more success than in his last battle – a charge to serve as a peace commissioner once he is fully recovered, which he accepts without reluctance.

 

\---

 

_March 1783_

 

He is deep in discussion with Lafayette when his usually discreet French maid, unable for once to hide entirely her surprise, informs him that “ _Madame Laurens est ici_.”

 

It’s the first time he hears Angelica referred to by his name aloud – during the war, Alexander always said _Angelica_ , familiarly, Lafayette followed suit, and their commander and other comrades spoke of _your wife_ or weren’t even aware that he was married.

 

He’s not sure if he ever mentioned the small matter of his wife and daughter across the ocean to his Parisian household staff. He probably hasn’t; there wasn’t any reason to when he did not expect them ever to meet, his sister’s badgering insistence that he ought to send for them soon so that she might meet them before returning to America notwithstanding. _Just you wait, Jack, they’ll arrive as soon as I’ve left!_

 

_It’s a long voyage and I expect I will leave no later than you, so I think it best for them to remain at home undisturbed._

_They aren’t_ at home, Patty had said pertly. _They are in New York. They are your family and their home is_ your _home, in South Carolina, with us._ He could not – still cannot – imagine Angelica Schuyler at Mepkin, even before the main house was burned down by redcoats.

 

Patty will be aghast that she was gone, returned to their aunt and uncle and Polly in the countryside, when his wife and daughter arrived, rather than here to greet them is his second, equally nonsensical thought.

 

He’s still paralyzed, stunned into silence, and it is Lafayette, who had at once stood up respectfully at the sight of her, who greets her. He walks over to Angelica to kiss both her cheeks in the French way and coo over their daughter. “ _Bienvenue à Paris, Madame et petite Mademoiselle Laurens_.”

 

Their daughter. The child whose imminent arrival forced his hand into marriage. _His daughter_ , who is already a sturdy little thing. _Of course. She could hardly be in swaddling bands forever._ Elizabeth – Lizzie – has been described to him before: she has his curling hair and coloring, down to the half-dozen faint freckles dotting her nose and cheeks, and her mother’s dark eyes, which flutter open and shut as though the effort of keeping them open is exhausting after their long voyage. But it’s hardly the same to see her in the flesh – flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone, blood of his blood. The guilt he has always suppressed at the rare thought of her hits him all at once, a wave so powerful it could bring him to his knees if he were on his feet.

 

“He is overcome with surprise,” Lafayette smoothly excuses him when he remains silent.

 

He nods, finally thinking to rise to his feet.

 

“And joy,” Lafayette adds after a beat when he still cannot unstick his tongue. “Your letter must have . . . How you say?”

 

“Gone astray,” he supplies, swallowing his surprise. “The last letter I received only discussed domestic matters, and our daughter –”

 

“I did think it was high time you should meet her,” she says sweetly.

 

Lafayette shoots him a look. He has no right. It’s not as if he –

 

But then Lafayette was fighting a war and now John is making peace. He could have them with him for this particular endeavor.

 

He moves closer, eyes locking with Angelica’s only a moment before he focuses on the child settled on her hip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes:
> 
> \- Get at me on tumblr: your3fundamentaltruths.tumblr.com - I'd love to chat!
> 
> \- Turns out I accidentally lied when I said a previous chapter was the most I used lyrics from the musical in a chapter. The first letter from Alexander is primarily an epistolary version of Alexander’s part of “Dear Theodosia.” John thinks back to “Right Hand Man,” “The Story of Tonight,” and “History Has Its Eyes on You” throughout the chapter and the snippet of his second letter to Alexander is based on Burr’s thought about his daughter in “The World Was Wide Enough.” 
> 
> \- The snippet of John's first letter to Alexander is from a real letter he wrote to Alexander. Alexander’s second letter combines parts from his last letter to John and an earlier letter, with some alterations to the “peace made” quote. 
> 
> \- It’s said that after the American loss during the Siege of Savannah, John threw down his sword, stood on the field with arms outstretched, and declared that his honor did not permit him to survive the disgrace of the day.
> 
> \- Because I’m not sure how much knowledge people might be coming to this with and it didn’t organically fit to exposit more, Jemmy was John’s younger brother. John was acting as his guardian when they were abroad. At one point, Jemmy fell while playing, fracturing his skull, and ultimately died.
> 
> \- Even if John had died, Lizzie wouldn’t be *orphaned* because Angelica is still living, but he’s feverish and addled and feeling guilty, and also “The World Was Wide Enough,” okay.
> 
> \- While John’s sisters were named Martha and Mary Eleanor, it seems that they were referred to, respectively, as Patty and Polly in his letters, which is why he thinks of them by those nicknames. Henry referred to John as Jack in multiple letters, so the family calls him Jack here, even though everyone who’s met him in adulthood calls him John. (Since deciding this was the case, I did come across a letter from Alexander to John on Tumblr where Alexander wrote “my dear Jack” and crossed out Jack to replace it with “one,” but it was a bit late.)
> 
> \- Tiny bit of miscellany: Lizzie may seem to be teething on the late side, but it can be anywhere from 3-12 months so she’s in range.


	5. Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Once I am gone you will make every effort to be a perfect gentleman to her, and not a stain upon the honor of the great man you once had the privilege to serve.”
> 
> He snorts. “I doubt His Excellency would concern himself with my domestic affairs.”
> 
> Lafayette sniffs haughtily. “I assure you he would; you know he is an uxorious man. He – now he knows how to treat a wife properly! Right now, across the sea, he can probably sense your deficiencies in this sphere.”

“She doesn’t bite and, even if she did, she’s somehow managed to fall asleep,” Angelica points out wryly.

 

He hesitantly touches his daughter’s cheek. “Hello, Lizzie,” he murmurs. She doesn’t fuss and he’s embarrassingly grateful.

 

“ _Elle est juste comme toi, mon ami_ ,” Lafayette says. “But God willing, less troublesome.”

 

“Indeed,” he says.

 

“Since my letter went astray, you can’t possibly be prepared for us,” Angelica says, drawing his attention away from Lizzie.

 

“Prepared for you?”

 

“A crib, that sort of thing?” she clarifies, as if he is simple.

 

“I will send for one, from my home,” Lafayette offers magnanimously. He has two children born close enough together, but now only the youngest, the unfortunately named Virginie, is still small enough not to sleep in a proper bed; little Georges grows like a weed. “You will have it by nightfall.” He helps himself to the nearest quill and blank parchment from John’s desk, sits down, and begins to scrawl out a message.

 

“That is very generous of you,” Angelica says with a grateful smile.

 

“ _De rien_ , _chérie_ , _de rien_ ,” Lafayette says, looking up to wave his free hand in the classic gesture of a carelessly munificent aristocrat.

 

“And in the meantime, is there somewhere I might put her down to rest?”

 

The house he’s let, unfurnished, is rather small by the standards of the French, but it was also meant for him alone. He’s never even bothered to have the other bedrooms furnished. He’d only wanted to politely decline Franklin’s offer to house him along with the Jays, and thank goodness for that now.

 

He gives a slightly apologetic shrug. “Only my bed. I’ve not had the other bedrooms furnished, despite my sister’s admonitions, since I don’t intend to stay very long.” Patty had been Mrs. Jay’s guest at Franklin’s while she was here; he’d promised, half-heartedly, that he’d be properly prepared for her return, knowing she’d linger at their uncle’s in the countryside. Now he’ll actually have to see it through.

 

Angelica tilts her head, but says nothing.

 

He feels as though he is being weighed and found very much wanting. He supposes he can’t blame her for that.

 

“She is a wise girl, Mademoiselle Martha,” Lafayette says without looking up.

 

“I do look forward to meeting her.”

 

“She’s been anxiously awaiting that happy day,” he assures her, for lack of anything more interesting to say. “Anyway, I’ll have Marie show you to the room, so Lizzie can rest, and see about your baggage, and – Did you bring any servants with you?” He hopes she didn’t bring a slave. He has only Shrewsberry, who’s been with him an age, but everyone else working in this house is a free man or woman.

 

“Yes. I hired a maid before I left, mostly to help with Lizzie; my father offered one of his own house servants, but that wouldn’t have suited.”

 

“Well, then, I’ll see to the various arrangements; the staff are very efficient, so hopefully they’ll be able to sort things well enough. Anyway –” He gestures for Angelica to follow him, puts her in Marie’s charge, and tells the maid to send the butler in to him once she has taken care of Angelica and Lizzie.

 

\---

 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he snaps at Lafayette, who’s now rising from his desk.

 

“You are the least gallant man I have ever had the displeasure to know, Laurens,” Lafayette says, complete with a disapproving cluck, like a gossipy fishwife. "You have not seen her in two years, and you did not greet her with a kiss, even to her cheek or her hand, you did not express pleasure to see her, you did not ask how her voyage was.”

 

He frowns. Unlike Alexander, Lafayette never had an explicit explanation for his very hasty marriage, but Lafayette is a smart man, and still he scolds. “I was very surprised,” he grumbles.

 

“That is no excuse. Hamilton and his Eliza will weep to hear how ill-used their beloved Angelica is!” His friend shakes his head. “I will have this note delivered, then I will make my excuses and say my farewell to your wife, and once I am gone you will make every effort to be a perfect gentleman to her, and not a stain upon the honor of the great man you once had the privilege to serve.”

 

He snorts. “I doubt His Excellency would concern himself with my domestic affairs.”

 

Lafayette sniffs haughtily. “I assure you he would; you know he is an uxorious man. He – now _he_ knows how to treat a wife properly! Right now, across the sea, he can probably sense your deficiencies in this sphere.”

 

If His Excellency is anything like Father, he probably can.

 

\---

 

He has no opportunity to heed Lafayette’s command; by the time he’s seen to arrangements to accommodate the two new members of the household – three, if he counts the maid – Angelica has ordered and taken a bath, instructed Marie and her own maid how she wishes her things unpacked, and fallen asleep beside Lizzie on his bed. She sleeps through dinner and even through the maid picking up a groggy Lizzie and putting her in her borrowed crib once it arrives, complete with luxurious layette, courtesy of Adrienne de Lafayette.

 

He doesn’t have the heart to wake her, instead telling Marie to instruct Cook to save a plate for her in case she wakes hungry in the night.

 

Sharing a bed with the wife he hasn’t seen in two years – whom he’s only twice spent a night with – won’t be strange at all, he thinks, when it’s finally time for him to sleep also, cursing himself for not putting at least a settee in his study.

 

\---

 

He wakes alone again, in the middle of the night, and wonders a moment if he dreamed the arrival of his wife and daughter until he sees Angelica’s hairbrush and jewelry on the dressing table. It wasn’t easy to fall asleep, as he did his best to keep to his side of the bed.

 

And then she walks in again, robe carelessly thrown on, a half-asleep Lizzie in arms. “She’s spoiled,” Angelica says, but it sounds very fond. “Even when I tell myself I must be firm, someone else will spoil my efforts – usually Peggy, but Eliza is no better when she’s with us, or even my father. He’s a very soft touch, for her at least.” She bites her lip. “She shouldn’t take up much room,” she adds quickly. “Even when it’s just the two of us, I usually wake up with her on top of me,” she says with a small smile.

 

“Think nothing of it; she’s had a great many changes and ought to have some familiar comfort."

 

\---

 

“She’s been surrounded by women from the day she was born, except for Daddy and then Alexander,” Angelica explains with what he knows from their limited acquaintance is uncharacteristic patience after it becomes obvious the next morning and in the days after that a wide-awake Lizzie will not take easily to him.

 

He bites back the childish retort that she seems to like Lafayette well enough, that it isn’t fair that _his_ daughter prefers Lafayette to her own father. Lizzie was delighted with him when he returned with the excuse of continuing yesterday’s conversation on diplomatic matters, which he knows was really a cover to see how they were getting on, and an invitation for an intimate dinner party in three days’ time. It shouldn’t bother him; he isn’t exactly the paternal sort, like he’s learned Lafayette is, like Alexander sounds in his letters. It might be for the best that she not become especially attached to him; that will give her less opportunity for disappointment when he inevitably falls short.

 

“She’s very fond of them, and they of her.”

 

Something twists in his chest at the thought of Alexander, and again at the thought of Alexander, who’s always written so warmly about his daughter, doting on her.

 

“How is he?”

 

“Alexander?”

 

He nods.

 

“Well. Very well, though he’s getting impatient with Congress. I think he’ll return to the law soon.” From what he’s read in Alexander’s letters, he agrees with her assessment. “He and Eliza still act like newlyweds and he’s completely besotted with Philip.”

 

That, to his guilty mind, whether she meant it to or not, sounds closer to the reproach she has yet to make fully for the two years he has avoided her, the year and a half he has been, at best, nothing but _your father_ mentioned in passing to a child too young to understand and spoken of as _my husband_ by a woman who knows enough to resent it.

 

“They are thick as thieves, Lizzie and Philip, could hardly bear to be separated,” she says when he says nothing, seemingly done with Alexander and Eliza. “I suspect Philip’s advanced so because he imitates everything Lizzie does, but for a handful of things. Lizzie, being the elder, started speaking several months before he did, and when he did, he mostly followed her in his acquisition of the language. She did, however, pick up one word from him that hadn’t been in her vocabulary, because she hasn’t needed it.” She doesn’t need to say which one; she doesn’t even need to look at him for him to know.

 

He flushes, guilty and uncomfortable.

 

But she isn’t done. “I was mortified,” she says, with a self-deprecating shrug. “But Alexander was very sweet about it. He’s been so wonderful with her it was an easy mistake for her to make.”

 

There, finally, is the reproach, the bit of honesty that for more than one reason feels like a knife between the ribs.

 

“But now that we are here, she needs only get used to you.”

 

\---

 

He dresses first, quickly, for dinner with the Lafayettes, and goes down to his study to give Angelica privacy to get ready. When he notes how closely the clock is ticking toward the time they ought to depart and how little activity he’s heard upstairs, he goes to check on her progress.

 

She’s standing in the middle of the room, hair done up, but still in her dressing gown, and sounds vaguely panicked when she informs him that she can’t go. “Could you make my excuses?”

 

“Do you feel unwell?” Her color is good, and she doesn’t seem over-tired, but perhaps –

 

“I can’t leave Lizzie.”

 

“You’ve never left her at home before?” he asks incredulously. Lizzie is over a year old, and Angelica does not strike him as the sort of woman to remain forever at home.

 

She just _looks_ at him as though he’d personally shot an especially beloved pet. “At home, yes, of course. In New York. But we’re in a foreign country.”

 

“So you plan never to leave the house while you’re here?”

 

“Of course not. But we arrived less than a week ago.”

 

“You can’t do this,” he tells her, praying for patience. “Lafayette is my best friend in this country; one of my best friends, full stop.” _But for Alexander._ “They mean to welcome you –”

 

“I know that. I just –”

 

“You’ll have to at some point,” he interrupts. “And better to visit them than anyone else. They’re devoted enough to their own children that they’ll understand better than most people here if you want to leave early. On that note, I’ll advise you not to get Lafayette started on the perfections of little Georges and his sisters, or we will be there all night.”

 

Her expression hasn’t changed.

 

“You will like Adrienne, even if she’s a bit quieter than you; I’d challenge anyone not to. And her family is among the first of France so she knows anyone worth knowing, and she will introduce you to everyone. It’s a valuable connection. Her brother will be there also.” An especially valuable connection, the Viscount de Noailles, and one of his fellow negotiators at Yorktown.

 

“I really –”

 

“Angelica,” he insists, determinedly ignoring the uncharacteristic pleading look she gives him. “If you’re not ready and downstairs in a half hour, I will drag you bodily out the door and into the carriage.”

 

“You don’t mean that.”

 

“Do you really want to find out?”

 

She sighs. “Fine, I’ll be down. But make sure the butler knows where we are, so they can get a message to me if –”

 

“Fine. But she’ll be perfectly fine.”

 

\---

 

He was right about the Lafayettes, of course.

 

Adrienne’s English, while more heavily accented than Lafayette’s, is still very good, but she and Angelica quickly switch to French and are chattering away like old friends by the second course.  

 

He can feel Lafayette’s eyes on him all night, assessing his behavior toward Angelica, so he makes certain to offer every courtesy. “I don’t think there are any men in all of France in lovelier or more charming company tonight,” he remarks loudly to Noailles at one point.

 

“ _Flatteur,_ ” Adrienne says lightly; Angelica only gives him a curious look that Lafayette’s sharp eyes will not miss, but at least he is trying. Surely his friend will give him credit for that.

 

\---

 

He hears a knock at his office door one afternoon as he contemplates various letters and the conflicting information therein, calls “come in” without thinking.

 

It’s Angelica, so he stands at once, gestures for her to sit, and waits until she does to do the same. Mostly they only see one another at meals and at bedtime, although there have been several occasions where he works late into the night, purposefully, so that she will be asleep when he goes to bed. The butler is still making inquiries as to completing furnishing of another bedroom and the nursery, and a guest room as well. The sooner, the better, because he was already sleeping badly before she arrived, and sleeping less is not helping matters. “Did you need something?”

 

She looks down at her hands in her lap a moment before looking back up at him. “As you know, I’ve been getting settled, familiar with the house and the staff, unpacking, and the like and there was something I noticed that concerned me.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Your valet, he is not treated as our other servants are.”

 

 _Our._ She’s already asserted herself as mistress of the house and staff. It’s her right, her place, but for some reason it amuses him. “What do you mean?”

 

“He is shabbily dressed, which reflects poorly on you, as he is your valet, and now on me that I am here, but he was very startled when I went to see to it and said you wouldn’t like it. Not to mention he isn’t paid –”

 

“He’s a slave,” he tells her, though she may be right about the need to get Berry a new suit of clothes. He’ll have to see about that. “My father’s. Father gave him to me when I joined Washington’s staff.

 

Her eyes narrow. “And that doesn’t strike you as incongruous?” she asks as one would ask a child who ought to know better why their behavior was naughty.

 

“What do you mean?” He does not entirely understand how her mind works. What conclusions has she drawn that she seems to think him a simpleton for missing?

 

“Alexander said you’re an abolitionist.”

 

“I wouldn’t call myself that in a room full of other southerners, but I am.”

 

“And yet you are giving yourself no incentive to end slavery.”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“If you allow yourself to keep slaves until the law forbids it, despite the utter inconsistency with your professed beliefs, you can hardly be in any hurry to hasten that happy day. Or was your plan for black battalions only a convenient solution to wartime necessity cloaked in higher-minded rhe –”

 

“Enough,” he interrupts coldly, and he sounds so like his father when he first questioned his father’s participation in the trade that he is half-embarrassed, but he doesn’t apologize for his brusqueness.

 

Her lips tighten, but she doesn’t argue. “Very well.” She stands and, with a sweep of her skirts, leaves the room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elle est juste comme toi, mon ami = she is just like you, my friend  
> De rien, chérie, de rien = It’s nothing, dear, it’s nothing.  
> Flatteur = flatterer
> 
> The Jays really did live with Benjamin Franklin while John Jay was a peace commissioner.
> 
> Catch me at your3fundamentaltruths.tumblr.com


	6. Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was Angelica right? Is he a hypocrite?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean to take this long between updates! Thanks to the Tumblr anon whose ask was an kick in the brain/pants to get this posted.
> 
> TLDR: I do get motivated by asks/comments, etc., so talk away!

_I spoke to her as my father has spoken to me, when I’ve questioned him, as if I were out of line. She wasn’t out of line._

He would not admit that to Lafayette in person, and certainly not to Alexander in writing, but just the thought of such an admission is enough to prick his conscience.

 

And, of course, his father had never spoken to his mother that way.

Was Angelica right? Is he a hypocrite?

 

\---

 

“What would you have me do?” he asks his wife the following morning, when none of the servants is in earshot. He’s never really been aware of them before, quietly blending into the background unless they have cause to speak to him, but it does not seem an appropriate topic of discussion in their presence.

 

“I have no idea what you’re asking about,” Angelica says crisply, but he knows that she remembers their discussion from her tone.

 

He sighs. “As regards Shrewsberry.” He barrels on then, wanting to get the uncomfortable out of the way. “Whatever my actions may lead you to think, my beliefs are sincere and I took offense at the implication that they are not, which resulted in my rudeness to you. I apologize for that.”

 

She doesn’t hesitate a moment. She also doesn’t address the apology. “First of all, he should be treated as well as the rest of the staff. A new suit of clothes would be a start.”

 

“Easy enough. And as to the rest?”

 

“My understanding is that Shrewsberry is, technically, now a free man simply by virtue of being in France.”

 

“That is correct, but as he does not speak French, it would be difficult to find employment elsewhere.”

 

“Did your father merely lend Shrewsberry to you or does he belong to you personally?”

 

“Lent him to me.”

 

“Then write to your father and tell him that you would like to know how much Shrewsberry is worth to him because you would like to buy him outright, and send him whatever amount he names. Either way, give Shrewsberry his freedom as soon as you have the legal right to do so, with the option to remain on the same terms as our French staff. Then your actions will match your beliefs and, when the time is right, you will have the moral authority to ask your peers to end this disgusting institution.”

 

It’s a good point. Perhaps she is more than merely clever – that cleverness had been apparent from the start – like he’d assumed when Alexander spoke of her intelligence, believing that Alexander, in his pose of chivalrous admirer and later affectionate, half-longing brother, had exaggerated her virtues. “I’ll take your advice under consideration.”

 

“Does that mean you won’t ever do a thing with it or that you’ve already decided you will but you can’t give in that easily?” she asks bluntly. She’s testing him.

 

He thinks, despite himself, that he’d like to pass the test. “I am deciding now to do it.”

 

“Good,” she says, sounding satisfied.

 

“I didn’t expect you’d have so strong an opinion about this.”

 

She gives him an assessing look. “I didn’t, before. But I did a lot of reading while you were in the South, when I could.”

 

“I’m glad,” he says, surprising himself. “You –”

 

“The thing is,” she interrupts, and he realizes she wasn’t done. “I’ve always cared about the rights of women; after the Declaration of Independence was first disseminated, I promised myself I’d compel Thomas Jefferson to include women in the sequel if I ever had the good fortune to meet him.”

 

He can feel his eyebrows rise as she talks. He’s married a bluestocking, and a very opinionated one, hasn’t he?

 

His father will be horrified. He’d been angry at the hasty marriage – that much was apparent in his letters – but calmed by the fact that it was not a _mésalliance_ , that he had somehow still managed to marry a well-bred, well-connected woman despite his recklessness. But to learn the woman in question is quite so opinionated . . . well, Father’s always been proud of Patty’s intelligence, but such strong opinions, if Patty ever expressed them, would be most unwelcome.

 

“My reading made me realize that it would be hypocritical to continue to protest the exclusion of women from so much of what goes on in our society on account of our sex, while countenancing the exclusion of an entire group, women and men alike, from any sort of rights or personal autonomy, solely because of the color of their skin, in the absence of any inherent inferiority.”

 

 _We have sunk the Africans and their descendants below the standard of humanity, and almost rendered them incapable of that blessing which equal heaven bestowed upon us all_ , he’d written his father during the war, smarting at the injustice of it all.

 

“Nor are women inherently inferior.”

 

He’s not sure what he thinks. And yet, it all sounds so simple, when she puts it that way. But can it be? “You’ll have to tell me more about it,” he says instead.

 

“I will.”

 

“I’ll hold you to it,” he warns, nearly teasing. This is less familiar footing.

 

She nearly smiles. “You won’t have to.”

 

\---

 

Unusually for him, he’s been so distracted that he sets aside and nearly forgets entirely the latest letter from Alexander, which Angelica had brought with her.

_. . . Although you continue to merit the partiality you so artfully instilled in me years ago, it is not at all well-done of you to leave me disappointed in New York while you fritter away your days with our faithless Frenchman and Dr. Franklin, when you know my happiness is no longer independent of your caprices._

_I had anticipated so much enjoyment in your friendship and neighborhood, my dear, and am now reduced to begging details of your exploits. Have you been gifted a second snuffbox to match the first given you by His Most Christian Majesty? Failing that, have you had the privilege to dance with his lady wife? If you have, I hope you acquitted yourself better than our Marquis and did not give her good cause to laugh at you._

_Despite the Old World’s pleasures, let me entreat you not precipitately to wed yourself – and your wedded wife – to a soil less propitious to you than will be that of the new. You will not want friends wherever you are on two accounts: one is you will have no need of them; another is that you both have too many qualities to engage friendship. But go where you will, my dear Laurens, yet you will find no such friends as those you have left behind._

_Upon the subject of wives, I must tell you my Betsey is apprehensive on account of our dear sister, as this will be her first entrée into Parisian society. She fears it may be something of a shock for_ Madame votre épouse _, who is so used to dazzling the room at any American gathering. I must entreat you to – I hope – set our minds at ease on that score, and also give me at least a line or two as to how fares_ Mademoiselle L _in that strange new land . . ._

\---

 

Angelica, he knows, is out for the evening at some party with Adrienne and some women of her set; most likely Lafayette and Noailles are in attendance also, and Franklin, of course, who is invited everywhere and goes anywhere he is likely to find good wine and beautiful women. But he himself simply has too much to do.

 

It’s a productive evening until he is distracted by the sound of crying – good God, how incompetent is the nanny if she can’t calm Lizzie one of the rare evenings Angelica has gone out? Is his daughter made to be so unhappy every one of those times? Or, he can’t help but wonder, is something unusual the matter?

 

The nanny looks to be at her wit’s end when he enters the nursery. “I’m sorry, sir, I’m doing everything I can, but she just – Her nappy is clean, she doesn’t have a scratch or bite on her, she _seems_ fine, but she won’t stop crying. It’s not like her at all.”

 

She’s not flushed or too pale, but just in case he touches her forehead. Nothing unusual, but she’s clearly miserable anyway.

 

“Give her here.”

 

The nanny hesitates a moment, but obeys.

 

He hasn’t held Lizzie like this before; she usually won’t budge from Angelica’s arms if she’s being held except to toddle off, delighted to be off and about, though he’s seen her go to Lafayette willingly enough and even sit on Franklin’s knee when the good doctor dropped in one day. He can’t recall holding a child this young at all since Polly, and that was a dozen years ago.

 

Polly’s nurse had cared for all of them in their turn; she had been with their family since before his own birth, coming to the plantation with their mother upon her marriage. She would not take Polly back from him or from Patty if she began to fuss in their keeping unless she was crying from hunger and had to be given over to a wet nurse, insisting they must know how to calm a baby themselves, even him.  

 

He walks about the room with Lizzie, trying not to flinch at how loudly she’s crying right in his ear, and it begins to come back to him, the things that calmed Polly. He strokes her soft baby curls and rubs her back to no avail, but eventually it seems she’s beginning to tire herself out because the cries are interspersed with whimpers, until one of the whimpers becomes a word.

 

“Mama.”

 

The nanny, who’s been standing there for ages, watching as helplessly as he feels, gives a sympathetic sigh. “Poor thing.”

 

“Don’t tell my wife,” he says, not too loud, but loud enough to make himself heard over Lizzie’s crying. “She’ll never leave the house again, and it’s been hard enough to convince her she doesn’t need to stay locked up here all the time.” It might be the province of most mothers, but she is a diplomat’s wife. Socializing is required of her and is no trial for her, so long as she is not given cause to feel anxiety over Lizzie.  

 

“Of course, sir.”

 

That’s when Lizzie rests her head on his shoulder a moment but then lifts it up again, wailing harder. “Mama, Mama.”

 

“Well, it’s obvious you won’t sleep in your cot tonight, young lady,” he murmurs, and walks with her to his own room.

 

Once he lays her down on the bed as gently as possible, she instantly rolls over to Angelica’s side and lies there on her belly, her tears coming slower and quieter now, but coming nevertheless. She looks up at him expectantly, perhaps – perhaps wanting to be held again?

 

No, off she goes crying again, more loudly, like before, as soon as he picks her up. Clearly there was something comforting about lying where Angelica would usually have been, but when he tries to put her back down, she clings.

 

He paces the room now, and that’s certainly not going to calm her down, having no idea at all what to do until he spots Angelica’s perfume on the dressing table. He pries Lizzie off and sets her down despite her protests, puts a good amount of the stuff on, and picks her up again. “You certainly won’t mistake me for your mother, but perhaps –”

 

Somehow, miraculously, the entirely ridiculous idea works.

 

\---

 

He’s not sure when exactly they fell asleep, but he wakes up in the morning still in yesterday’s clothes with Lizzie on his chest, slightly drooling in slumber, and Angelica in her dressing gown with sleep-tousled hair looming over them both.

 

“Did you spill my perfume on yourself?” Angelica asks quietly, giving him a very strange look.

 

“I’ll buy you more,” he whispers, for Lizzie’s benefit. “Lizzie found it soothing; she wanted to be held, but she’d wail whenever I picked her up from your side of the bed. I became –” _Desperate._ “Creative.”

 

“So she missed me.”

 

“We got on well enough, in the end,” he says quietly, skirting the question.

 

Lizzie begins to shift then, waking up, and he can tell when she’s awake enough to know what she’s about when she blinks at him, looks to her left, spots her mother, and immediately reaches for her. Angelica swiftly picks her up and kisses her on the forehead, walking away with her while murmuring something he can’t quite hear.

 

\---

 

A few days later, he returns from a consultation with Adams to a hectic houseful of unfamiliar laborers carting in furniture. “What is going on?” he calls when he spots Angelica at the center of the activity.

 

“I’ve prioritized the sitting and dining rooms over the rest of the house. I can’t entertain without it, and we can’t keep accepting invitations without making any.”

 

“You’re right about that,” he concedes. Not now that she is here and can play hostess. “But you might have consulted me. How exactly are you planning to pay for this?” he asks innocently.

 

From the way her mouth drops ever so slightly open, he can tell she hadn’t given it a thought, had assumed the bill would be paid without a glance. “You’re good for it, aren’t you?” she asks in a lower voice, pulling him into an alcove out of hearing, but not sight.

 

She would expect so, he supposes, with her father. He is, but she can’t always assume that he will be, not when everything he has comes from his own.

 

She sounds vaguely panicked now. “There was more than enough to pay for something like this in the account, many times over, I barely –”

 

“In Philadelphia –” He’d made the perhaps unwise decision to put a large amount of money at her disposal, so he wouldn’t have to concern himself with the possibility that she might later be short of funds. It’s good to know she didn’t do anything rash.

 

She looks around a moment, as if contemplating for the first time that the half-furnished house might be due to more than his indolence – although it is, in reality, due entirely to his indolence. “Well, there’s always my father’s money.”

 

He can feel a headache coming on and suddenly wants to be anywhere but having this conversation. “I beg your pardon?”

 

“He wanted to be absolutely sure I would have enough when we sailed –”

 

“Why would he think you wouldn’t?”

 

“I think it was more habit than anything else. We _were_ living with him, you know.”

 

“You didn’t have to –”

 

She shrugs. “I wanted to. And even if I hadn’t, you gave no indication as to where you wished to settle after the war; it seemed easiest to stay. He is . . . used to seeing to my wellbeing, so it came naturally to him to offer the money.”

 

“As a loan, of course,” he says evenly, even as he imagines otherwise. But he hopes his thoughts are wrong and his words are right.

 

She frowns. “Of course not a loan. He’s my father, not my banker, good God.”

 

“And you took it?”

 

“Why wouldn’t I?”

 

“Because you are _married_ ,” he says incredulously. “Because you’re my responsibility, not your father’s, and Lizzie even more so, and I set aside plenty of money –”

 

“I wish my father many, _many_ happy years, but his money will go to me and my sisters someday, and so he has no compunction about sharing it with us in his lifetime. Don’t be as ridiculous about it as Alexander.”

 

He shakes his head. “It’s not ridiculous. He has the right of –”

 

“He certainly does not, but now I know that rich boys from great families have as much stubborn pride as poor bastard orphans,” she says, provokingly.

 

Surely the Schuylers must be giving poor Alexander a complex; they’re beginning to give _him_ a complex. “As to everything you’ve undertaken, I’m good for it. I was merely trying to prove a point, one that seems to have gone right over your head.”

 

“And, other than poorly made –”

 

He bristles.

 

“That point was?”

 

“That you might want to mention things like this first, in the event that someday I’m not _good for it_.”

 

She only raises an eyebrow in response.

 

“I won’t insist you return your father’s funds –” He doubts she would willingly and he’s not inclined to force the matter, even though the last thing he wants is so much as a penny from General Schuyler. “But you won’t spend it, and certainly not on the household. Save it for an unlikely rainy day, and I’ll make my peace with it.”

 

“I suppose I can live with that,” she says at last, with obvious reluctance.

 

“And don’t do it again.”

 

“Improving our abode or –”

 

“You know what I mean.” So help him God, he _cannot_ laugh. He cannot. He’ll go to his study before he loses this particular battle.

 

\---

 

_. . . That is all there is to be said at present on the subject of our negotiations._

 

_In response to the questions of your last favor, I have neither made a matched set of royal snuffboxes nor danced with the queen, though I expect I would acquit myself brilliantly given the opportunity. I sincerely hope Count Fersen will be so gracious as to allow me to cut in someday._

_Additionally, you may reassure your Betsey and yourself, dear boy, that you have no need to fret. Angelica has taken well to Paris and charms in all companies. No one has seen her, of either sex, who has not been pleased with her, and she has pleased everyone, chiefly by means of those qualities which make you the husband of her sister._

_Your niece will require more time to settle, but she has already made a favorite of Lafayette, to the exclusion even of myself. Do not, however, be too jealous of the_ petite mlle’s _fickle affections, for you remain first in the father’s. Our fighting Frenchman objects most strenuously to your abusive aspersions upon his faithfulness. Despite them, he desires me to remember him fondly to you, and will likely write you by this packet. Be so kind as to take notice of his letter if he does, for I fear your cruel indifference in failing to write him by Angelica has wounded his tender heart._

_My love to you as usual, and Eliza as well. Yours ever, J. Laurens_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first sentence of Alexander’s letter to John is a call-back to the “cold in my professions, warm in my friendships” letter; the second sentence and parts of the second paragraph are adapted from a letter Alexander wrote to Angelica after she left America. 
> 
> Count Fersen is Count Axel von Fersen, who was an aide-de-camp to Rochambeau and rumored to have been romantically involved with Marie Antoinette. He returned to France in June 1783, but I’m pushing up his return by a month or so.
> 
> The part in John’s letter to Alexander about Angelica charming in all companies comes from a letter James McHenry wrote Alexander. 
> 
> The lines in John’s letter about about writing to Lafayette were inspired by this: http://your3fundamentaltruths.tumblr.com/post/149683196657/likelancelot-many-ships-pacquets-are-arrived and the fact that historical Lafayette seemed to get as upset with Alexander for not writing him as Alexander did with John.


	7. Interlude 2 (don't forget to write)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She has kissed and embraced them all and is just about to take Lizzie from her father, who has more than once attempted to convince her that Lizzie should remain, when Alexander takes her hand once more, something like anxiety in his eyes. “Angelica.”
> 
> “Yes?”
> 
> “Be very good to him, won’t you?” he demands. “He’s not nearly good enough to himself.”
> 
> Will you tell him to be good to me? she wants to ask. But she only squeezes his hand back. “Don’t forget to write.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one! You're welcome :D
> 
> Comments here/tumblr asks/etc. mean the world!

_November 1782_

 

_. . . As soon as I rise from my sickbed, I shall quit this place to sail for Paris as a peace commissioner._

_This was not a position I sought or, in fact, desire. Hamilton may recall for you with what reluctance I accepted my first diplomatic post, and my feelings are little changed. Yet all else is. Then we were still at war and I could better serve my country with my sword than my pen; now in times of peace, I cannot refuse. In this case it is my particular duty to country and family to accept it. Otherwise my father, whose resignation Congress refused to accept until my name was offered in place of his, would have been compelled to take up the post despite his poor health after an extended imprisonment._

_You may write to me in care of Dr. Franklin at Passy until I am arrived and can write you with my own address. Embrace Lizzie for me, and give my best regards to the family._

_I am yours affectionately, J. Laurens_

 

“It seems my husband goes on to Paris,” she tells her father, looking up from the latest letter from South Carolina.

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“He goes as a peace commissioner in place of his father.”

 

“And?” Daddy demands when she is done reading the letter.  

 

“And?”

 

“When will you join him?”

 

“There’s no mention of that,” she says in a small voice.

 

“Will he come to see you?”

 

“No mention of that either.”

 

He looks at her in such a way that she knows he won’t tolerate her avoiding his eyes. And he doesn’t even know the half of it – “It’s been nearly two years, Angelica.”

 

“I know that.”

 

“Your husband seems not to remember.” Even if he’d behaved perfectly in the two years since their marriage, doted on her as Alexander does on Eliza, her father would still begrudge him their elopement – dear God, can her father hold a grudge – but given his actual behavior, she is nearly certain her father hates him.

 

The only reason she does not is because she is happy enough to remain with her family.

 

\---

 

But it is Lizzie’s words – well, one word – that begins to change things.

 

She feels her face flame, wants the ground beneath her feet to open up and swallow her whole when it happens. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she has enough presence of mind to be thankful that Daddy isn’t here, but it’s still mortifying enough in front of her sisters, especially Eliza, especially after Mary Anderson –

 

“Perhaps she’s guessed I’d like to steal her away and keep her for myself, and is proclaiming her support of my goal,” Alexander says mischievously, a strong effort at salvaging the situation. “Alas, Uncle Alexander cannot keep you, sweet girl, however much he may want to. But you will look at our niece very closely, Betsey, and remember I want just such a one when it is time to give Philip a sister.”

 

Eliza laughs, and Lizzie’s mistake is soon forgotten by everyone but her.

 

\---

 

Eliza is perched on the arm of Alexander’s chair, with one eye on Philip in his cradle, Alexander’s free hand resting on her lap, his fingers tangled with hers, as he reads a letter from General Washington. “His Excellency thinks very highly of your husband,” Alexander tells her, looking up from the letter to her.

 

She thinks it her imagination, but she would swear that on the rare occasions Alexander refers to him in relation to her, he sounds . . . jealous. She isn’t sure of whom he’d be jealous, if he were. Perhaps of both of them.

 

No, it _must_ be her imagination. Alexander adores Eliza; it is apparent in every look, every touch, every word, constantly assuring her she made the right choice that night.

 

Such cold comfort it is! Her skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel against the onslaught of tenderness not meant for her eyes or ears, not meant for her at all.

 

Alexander clears his throat. “ _In a word, Laurens has not a fault that I ever could discover, unless intrepidity bordering upon rashness could come under that denomination; and to this you know he is excited by the purest motives_.” He sighs. “I suppose Laurens has always been far easier to love, and therefore to forgive.”

 

She nearly snorts at the notion; she can’t help herself.

 

“Nearly died or not, I’m certain His Excellency wouldn’t speak so kindly of me, even two years on, if I’d been the one to duel Lee,” Alexander continues mulishly. “He ordered me not to, and I couldn’t disobey direct orders, so John did it. Good shot in the side, too. And yet it was held against _me_.”

 

“Alexander,” Eliza chides gently, sounding entirely unsurprised.

 

And yet _she_ knows nothing of it. Eliza never mentioned why Alexander fell out with General Washington and she just assumed that it was Washington’s continual refusal to give Alexander a command. It may be the greatest surprise she’s ever had from either of her sisters, to learn that Eliza has kept something from her. “General Lee?” she finally asks.

 

Alexander nods.

 

“On what grounds?”

 

“Slandering His Excellency.”

 

She frowns, recalling something she’d read, something about the _code duello_ her father would have been appalled to know she’d got her hands on. “You’re not his sons –”

 

Alexander sits up sharply. “We are not, but he has none and he was our commander. His honor or his disgrace were ours also.”

 

“Of course,” she murmurs, placating.

 

Eliza favors her with a small, grateful smile.

 

\---

 

_Nearly died or not, I’m certain His Excellency wouldn’t speak so kindly of me, even two years on, if I’d been the one to duel Lee. He ordered me not to, and I couldn’t disobey direct orders, so John did it._

 

She wakes up suddenly that night, heart racing.

 

She might have been ruined if he’d been killed or tried for murder, if he’d actually managed to kill General Lee. What would have become of her, of Lizzie?

 

She cannot sleep for hours, even after she decides what she must do and to speak to her father about it in the morning.

 

\---

 

She’s kept her peace all day after her interview with her father, despite the tension simmering beneath her skin. It finally boils over that evening before supper, with her impatience over the snarled threads in her piecework getting the better of her in Eliza’s parlor. “Didn’t you think it important to mention to me that my husband dueled a general?” she asks abruptly.

 

“He wasn’t your husband then.”

 

“He was when Alexander was sent home –”

 

“You’ve hardly a right to scold me about failing to mention important matters,” Eliza interrupts with an uncharacteristic edge to her voice.

 

She cannot have this conversation with her sister, not even nearly two years later. Not _ever_.

 

She didn’t think she was capable of loving anyone more than Eliza. _More than anything in this life._ She chose Eliza’s happiness over her own, always will. But her daughter – oh, her daughter. Lizzie is her own in a way her sister never can be, because Alexander comes first. Philip, too. She would choose Lizzie over Eliza every time, and Eliza would expect nothing less, would be disappointed in her if she did not.

 

Still, Eliza will always be so very important to her and this is why she cannot say what’s in her heart. What she _will_ do is for Lizzie and Eliza both. Even if she can hardly bear the thought of such distance ( _at least I keep his eyes in my life_ ), it is exactly what is needed.

 

Peggy interjects anxiously, “Please don’t fight, not when –”

 

She suspected Peggy had been listening at the door when she spoke to their father and now she knows for sure. She isn’t upset with her; she can’t be. Poor Peggy is usually the last to know anything important. Their father protects them all and as the oldest, she protects her sisters. Eliza also feels the need to protect Peggy, because she is the youngest, and confides only in her. Protection too often means ignorance, much to Peggy’s disappointment and frustration. “Peggy’s right,” she says softly. “I don’t want to fight.”

 

“You didn’t trust me,” Eliza continues, voice breaking. “You don’t.”

 

 _With the knowledge that I covet your husband? Never._ “I do. I went to you when I needed help.” _Only you_ , she doesn’t say. She doesn’t have to.

 

Eliza’s face softens.

 

“And I don’t want to fight before I leave.”

 

“Leave?” Eliza repeats blankly.

 

Peggy flinches ever so slightly.

 

“Sail for France,” she says quickly, not wanting to prolong the painful admission.

 

“Please don’t.”

 

“It’s been nearly two years. The war’s over now, entirely. They are making history with the treaty.” And that is a not insignificant part of the appeal of leaving.

 

“I don’t have to like it,” Eliza says at last.

 

“No one does,” Peggy agrees.

 

“I would be disappointed if you did.”

 

Eliza gives her a wobbly smile. “You will come home as soon as the treaty is signed. Laurens is forbidden to accept another diplomatic post, and Alexander will impress that point upon him, I will make sure of it.”

 

“I think I would prefer Europe to South Carolina,” she admits, bracing herself for Eliza’s reaction. She doesn’t fancy the notion of plantation life.

 

“What of New York?” Eliza demands. “If our husbands should go into Congress together, you will of course be here very often. It is Alexander’s dearest wish, and mine, that you be here with us always.”

 

Of course it is.

 

She loves her sister more than nearly anything in this life, but the thought of spending the rest of her life enmeshed in her sister’s with the man she loves, married to a man who loves him also, is nearly as suffocating as the thought of leaving Eliza.

 

(And Alexander.)

 

She nods noncommittally before switching topics to something more pleasant. “Before we go, I should like to have Lizzie baptized, with you and Alexander as her sponsors.”

 

Eliza’s smile changes into something strong and true. “Of course! And you will stand for Philip with Daddy.”

 

Peggy pouts.

 

“You can have the next one,” Eliza promises their little sister, elbowing her gently.

 

Peggy rolls her eyes, but mumbles a _fine_ that means Eliza is forgiven.

 

“Are –” she begins hesitantly.

 

Eliza smirks. “Not yet.”

 

\---

 

“I present Elizabeth to receive the Sacrament of Baptism,” the three of them begin in unison.

 

Philip, who will have his turn soon enough, is nearly asleep in Daddy’s arms.

“Will you be responsible for seeing that the child you present is brought up in the Christian faith and life?” Reverend Moore asks.

“I will, with God’s help,” they answer firmly. There is such conviction in Eliza and Alexander’s voices that she feels tears in her eyes.

“Will you by your prayers and witness help this child to grow into the full stature of Christ?”

“I will, with God’s help,” they repeat.

 

“Elizabeth,” Reverend Moore intones solemnly. “I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

 

Lizzie doesn’t cry at the sudden fall of water upon her, only giggles, and they all smile, even sleepy little Philip.

 

Daddy’s is tinged with sadness, as if already thinking of their departure, and Peggy refuses to give Lizzie up all day once she manages to take her from Eliza, standing firm even in the face of Alexander’s protests that she has _robbed him_ of his goddaughter.

 

\---

 

She doesn’t cry when she takes her leave of the family, only because she knows she’ll set her sisters off, and quite possibly Lizzie and Philip. She’ll save it for the ship, after Lizzie and her maid are asleep.

 

She has kissed and embraced them all and is just about to take Lizzie from her father, who has more than once attempted to convince her that Lizzie should remain, when Alexander takes her hand once more, something like anxiety in his eyes. “Angelica.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Be very good to him, won’t you?” he demands. “He’s not nearly good enough to himself.”

 

 _Will you tell_ him _to be good to_ me? But she only squeezes his hand back. “Don’t forget to write.”

 

\---

 

_March 1783_

 

God, what has she _done_?

 

She lied to her family, telling them that she’d posted a letter announcing her intended departure for France, when really she’d tossed it in the fire.

 

Her husband had last written that he expected the negotiations to drag on for several months longer, and they’d not heard anything to the contrary before she left, but what if he was wrong? What if he’s left?

 

Mentally, she shakes herself as they disembark at Lorient. It would not be the end of the world. If she arrives in Paris to find him gone, she will go to Dr. Franklin, or Lafayette, and seek assistance. She has money enough to see to anything she and Lizzie might need, to pay and keep the maid; she’d drawn drafts on the usual firm, and her father, as if skeptical that her husband could even do so little as provide for her financially, had given her additional funds.   

 

She arranges their departure for Paris with all possible haste.

 

\---

 

He looks not so very much different from what she remembers, only thinner. She suspects his imprisonment as an officer before she met him at Eliza and Alexander’s wedding was more comfortable than his recent battles in South Carolina as one, particularly after he was wounded and became ill. The most striking change is the dark circles beneath his eyes, which puzzle her. One would think he would sleep well now, given a naturally more comfortable life now that the war is done. 

 

He is obviously even more astounded by her appearance than she is by her own daring, impressing herself with how smoothly she lies.

 

God bless Lafayette, she thinks, for trying to make everything easy, even though it cannot possibly be.

 

\---

 

Dr. Franklin’s house at Passy is not far from her husband’s, and as Mr. Jay and his family reside with him, it is a natural meeting place for the American commissioners.

 

“Finally, another woman!” Sarah Jay, _née_ Livingston, exclaims when she first calls on her, kissing her cheek. “And a familiar face, at that. Thank God I speak French or I should have gone mad by now, for most of my conversation is when Madame Lafayette and her friends visit – they are lovely, really – or we go to court. I would hardly count the children, though I love them dearly,” she says ruefully. When she looks at her closely, she says, “I’m not sure I like that look.”

 

“I’m not sure you should. Well, you should. I’m not sure the commissioners should.”

 

“They’re all perfectly kind,” Sarah hastens to explain. “Well, Mr. Adams is a bit brusque, but that is his way. It’s only that, while I am hardly uninterested in politics –” She could not be, with her father. “It gets to be a bit much, when half the time they talk themselves in circles and can’t seem to agree on a thing amongst themselves.”

 

“Is that so?”

 

She nods.

 

“That’s unfortunate.”

 

“Dr. Franklin has been here all along, of course, and Mr. Adams has come and gone and returned. We arrived to find them deeply divided, and Colonel Laurens arrived much to the same circumstances despite my husband’s best efforts. Adams has since come about to my husband’s way of thinking, but Franklin, however lovely a man, is against. And well, you know –”

 

“Since I’ve only just arrived, I’m a bit behind,” she says apologetically. “We haven’t really . . . had time to discuss where matters stand with the treaty.”

 

“Of course,” Sarah says, a slight smile playing about her lips.

 

She – _oh._ Well, let her think what she may. Better Sarah Jay think they were too preoccupied making up for lost time than realize she doesn’t know a thing because her husband rarely wrote her and doesn’t even _talk_ to her now that she’s here.

 

“Not to worry, then, sit down and I shall catch you up straightaway,” Sarah assures her, settling herself before picking up the teapot to pour her a cup.

 

\---

 

He doesn’t seem to realize it, _she_ realizes, just how ill he sleeps, tosses, turns, mumbles things she can’t understand. Even if it were not for Lizzie, she would not have a full night’s sleep.

 

In the morning light, there’s no evidence but the ever-darkening circles beneath his eyes, and her own.

 

She begins avoiding bringing Lizzie into the bed, because Lizzie needs her sleep.

 

But one day enough is finally enough; he shouts, truly shouts, still asleep, sounds so distressed by his dreams that she leans over him to wake him.

 

“Wake up,” she commands. She knows he’s still not entirely awake when he grabs her arms roughly enough to leave bruises. “Wake up. Wake up, John, please,” she continues insistently, to no avail. 

 

His eyes have snapped open, but it’s as if he can’t hear or see her.

 

 _What in the Lord’s name am I supposed to do? What would –_ She is her father’s daughter, and she summons all of the general’s steel in that moment. “Colonel Laurens, _wake up_!”  She sees it then, the flash of recognition in his eyes, his painful grip slackening immediately. “You’re all right. You’re all right.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, eyes wide when he focuses on her. “I didn’t mean to –”

 

“I know. I know. You were having a bad dream. From the sound of it, a very bad dream. I know you don’t sleep well.”

 

He looks down. “I’ve probably woken you, haven’t I?”

 

She nods.

 

“I’m sorry, the other rooms will –”

 

“Never mind that,” she interrupts. She knows the rest of the house will be ready soon. “I’m more concerned with what’s troubling you. Would you – would you tell me about it?”

 

He bites his lip.

 

“Remember that I made you my confidant once? Let me be yours,” she says. “Contrary to what you might think, I’m a good listener.”

 

He won’t quite look at her when he finally speaks. “I disgraced myself entirely at the Combahee.”

 

“You have nightmares about disgracing yourself in battle?” she asks, trying to keep – and somehow succeeding in keeping – the impatience out of her voice. Just like a man. She doesn’t bother to dispute his characterization of it. She doesn’t know enough about that particular battle to do so. The only things she knows, really, are that he’d taken on the command despite being ill, nearly got himself killed, and had many of his men die. General Greene had described his valor –

 

“I led my men straight into a massacre,” he retorts angrily.

 

Angry at himself, she realizes, as he continues.

 

“And then I woke up – yes, in pain, hovering between life and death, but very much _alive_ – only to hear how many of them had died. Do you have any idea how many men – my men, men I was responsible for – lost their lives –”

 

How many _lives were lost_ , her father always says. Alexander, too. They turn it into an abstraction, if they talk of it at all.

 

“Because of me?”

 

“Do you dream of them?” she asks, very softly, sympathetic now.

 

“I should not have survived the disgrace of the day,” he says instead.

 

Her reply is instantaneous and razor-sharp. “Don’t say that.”

 

“It’s the truth. I’m surprised I wasn’t court-martialed. Probably because I sailed so quickly, there wasn’t time.”

 

She can tell she won’t get through to him on that and wishes she’d listened more closely to Eliza when she talked about Alexander’s changeable moods after his return from Yorktown.

 

Alexander had spent his first weeks at home sick and melancholy after the initial burst of joy upon arrival, and she’d always assumed his moods were due to his physical state and nothing more, because they’d cleared in time. He’d been so _happy_ when Philip was born. Were there any lost lives – _men who lost their lives,_ she corrects herself; if John will speak of it plainly, she can at least think of it plainly – he regretted, too?

 

“I will not agree with that, but I won’t argue with you about it, so tell me what you’ve been dreaming about,” she says evenly. “One might say you owe me that much, seeing as I wake up, too.”

 

He looks so mulish, so closed off, that she’s sure he’ll refuse, but he finally begins, phrases choppy and slow-going. “It’s the same battle, over and over again. I am in it, but have no power to change the outcome, but this time – This time, I could see myself just before, I tried to shout at myself, to stop myself, but . . . well, the version of me that was leading the charge couldn’t hear, or wouldn’t listen, I don’t know . . . and I had to watch the whole thing over again anyway.”

 

She doesn’t say anything until she’s absolutely sure he’s done. “That must have been awful. Must be, every time. I wondered why you slept so badly,” she admits. “I don’t know that there’s a way to stop yourself from dreaming, but . . . just know that you can’t bring those men back by torturing yourself.” She reaches for his hand and squeezes it. “And,” she adds, hoping her sudden burst of inspiration does not make matters worse. “It’s a disservice to them, not to live your best life. You live, so live well, do good for the country they fought and bled and died for. That’s all you can do.”

 

He says nothing else, but she hopes the flicker behind his eyes is as promising as she wishes it to be. He has already listened to her about Shrewsberry, after all.

 

\---

 

_My dear brother,_

_I will first set you at ease, that Lizzie and I are safely arrived in France. The voyage, from what I have been given to understand, was neither particularly difficult nor particularly easy, and we are no worse for the wear. You will be disappointed, however, to hear that I find your_ dear friend _rather thinner than when last I saw him. I have determined that he is too much like you, but had not the benefit of Eliza and myself to see to his care, and I shall have to set things to right._

 

 _I should like Paris exceedingly if it were nearer to America, for I have a very agreeable set of acquaintance, particularly dear Lafayette and Mme. L., and also Mrs. Jay and Mme. de Ture, who is a great admirer of my father. She says he is the most amiable man of our country. That may be because she has not met_ you.

 

 _Yet I do not know that I can be truly content, having left my best and most invaluable friends. Do endeavor to soothe my poor Betsey and comfort her with the assurances that I will certainly return very soon._ _You said I was as dear to you as a sister; keep your word to write me very often, and let me have the consolation to believe that you will never forget the promise of friendship you have vowed._ Adieu _, my dear brother. May God bless and protect you prays your ever affectionate Angelica._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Historically, Henry Laurens was also one of the peace commissioners, but he originally declined the appointment and Congress voted essentially not to accept the resignation. Here, John lives, so the responsibility gets passed on to him. (To some degree it seems that Henry, who was not in the best health after his stay in the Tower, nevertheless felt obligated to John’s memory to ultimately take on the role of peace commissioner – or at least, said as much in a letter to John Adams.) 
> 
> \- What Washington writes Alexander here is a slightly altered version of what he said historically after John died.
> 
> \- “Her skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel” is a slight variation of “My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel” from George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Swords.
> 
> \- I’ve condensed the Episcopalian baptism rite.
> 
> \- Sarah Jay’s father was William Livingston, Governor of New Jersey.
> 
> \- AND, please make sure to check out TyntatheFangurl's art for this story, including the latest piece for last chapter: http://tyntathefangurl.tumblr.com/post/152785306670/hello-this-one-is-i-created-for


	8. Interlude 3 (you will never find a sister as trusting or as kind)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliza knows her sister like she knows her own mind. You will never find a sister as trusting or as kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is adapted from “Satisfied.” I didn’t want to do 2 interludes in a row, but it doesn’t really make sense to put Eliza’s interlude any later, because this is where it fits narratively.

_June 1783_

 

 _. . ._ _Mr. and Mrs. Jay live in a small house, very clean and neat, with Dr. Franklin at Passy. I have the pleasure to drink tea with Mrs. Jay once a week. I have additionally become fast friends with Mme. Lafayette, who is perhaps the kindest woman in France. Our friend is very fortunate in his wife, although not so fortunate as our amiable._

_Your niece has already acquired an impressive collection of French words and an equal number of French admirers and a smaller set of Americans, chief among them Lafayette and Dr. Franklin. She does not accept Colonel Laurens’s attentions half so well as theirs, to his chagrin and my own._

_Tell Colonel Hamilton that I shall be very angry if he does not write to me, as I shall be with you if you fail to make proper return._ Adieu, _my dear sister._

_Ever yours, your very affectionate Angelica_

 

\---

 

Angelica is the oldest and the wittiest – that compliment Angelica will accept without objection, but she draws the line at _prettiest_ , and she loves Angelica for it all.

 

She knows her sister like she knows her own mind, knows the fact that men will only allow her _allow!_ she can hear Angelica exclaim, exasperated, as though Angelica were sat beside her and not across the hated Atlantic – to express her thoughts and indulge her by pretending to listen because of her beauty rankles.

 

Angelica has radical, rebellious notions. She is, however, fundamentally practical, and she has always known _who she is_. Angelica Schuyler, eldest daughter of General Philip Schuyler –

 

No, not Schuyler, not any longer. The Schuyler sisters have all married and left their name behind now. It is Peggy’s sudden elopement with the young patroon of Rensselaerswyck, a cousin of theirs, that is making her maudlin, she knows.

 

The world they live in is not the one Angelica wishes it were; they live in a world in which their job is to marry rich and then fade gracefully into the background, satisfied to be the well-kept wives of wealthy, prominent men who will reflect well on a father-in-law who has no sons of his own.

 

Their father has done well enough in that, she supposes, even with two of his three daughters eloping. She, the only one who did things properly, perhaps married the most unsuitable man, and yet her father adores him above all (above his own daughters, she sometimes thinks), sees the future of their family reflected in Alexander’s intelligent eyes.

 

\---

_January 1780_

They’ve been anxiously awaiting the ball for an eternity, and yet it seems like it will be like every other social gathering since the revolution first began, her off to one side watching events unfold and Angelica dazzle the room, while Peggy waits demurely to be asked to dance.

There’s a small knot of soldiers, three who walk in together, all officers, who catch her attention at once: the curly-haired, freckled one ( _John Laurens_ , whispers Peggy, who has suddenly materialized at her side; _his father was president of Congress_ ) seems rather bored in a well-mannered sort of way, the attractive darker-skinned officer ( _Aaron Burr_ , says Peggy; _his father was president of Princeton_ ) is laughing with their bright-eyed comrade ( _Alexander Hamilton, Washington’s_ ) –

 

But she barely hears Peggy, because her heart goes _boom_ at the sight of him.

 

\---

 

She sees the way Angelica eyes the mysterious _Alexander Hamilton_ , Washington’s hungry-looking, handsome chief aide-de-camp, but when _she_ looks – truly looks into his eyes, she forgets everything but those eyes, even her own name. She’s drowning.

 

And she knows her sister like she knows her own mind.

 

_If I tell her that I love him, she’d be silently resigned. He’d be mine._

She makes her decision before she can change her mind. She grabs her sister and whispers, “This one’s mine.”

Her heart is in her throat as Angelica very slowly nods and offers her a smile, murmuring “fine,” before she begins to make her way across the room.

 

_What is she going to do?_

 

Angelica grabs the mysterious Colonel Hamilton by the arm and leads him towards her.

“Elizabeth Schuyler,” she says, proud of how even and pleasant and mature she sounds. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

 

“Schuyler?” he echoes, voice a bit higher than she expected.

 

“My sister,” Angelica explains.

 

“Thank you for all your service,” she says, wanting his attention firmly on her.

 

“If it takes fighting a war for us to meet, it will have been worth it,” he murmurs, bowing over her hand.

 

 _Oh._ There’s that feeling again, that _heart-go-boom_ feeling.

 

“I’ll leave you to it,” Angelica says heartily.

 

(Too heartily.)

 

\---

Enter the brilliant-eyed boy she falls helplessly in love with, and it is Eliza, as the middle Schuyler daughter, who sidesteps society’s expectations. Their courtship is fast, and quickly followed by a proposal, with a wedding planned for year’s end.

 

She is a dreamer, not a social climber or a schemer, and so Alexander’s background does not matter to her, but her father pleasantly surprises her by immediately seeing the value in the man she loves, though he is a penniless illegitimate orphan. “He is Washington’s most trusted aide,” Daddy says. “So favored that some whisper he –” Daddy stops himself.

_What do they whisper_? she wants to ask, and Angelica must see the question, because she finishes their father’s thought bluntly as soon as they are alone, with a shocking allegation. “Some say he is so favored because he is Washington’s by-blow.” Angelica shakes her head. “A ridiculous notion, of course. My . . . amiable brother-to-be has earned Washington’s trust by his efforts, and such filth comes from men jealous because of their own inferiority.”

 

\---

 

Enter then John Laurens, Alexander’s best man and fellow aide-de-camp, eldest son and heir of the exceedingly wealthy former President of the Continental Congress.

 

Alexander speaks of him rarely, but with the greatest warmth imaginable, as the best of soldiers, of friends, of men. Where other men revere General Washington, Alexander’s veneration seems saved for his _dear Laurens_. Colonel Laurens is the only man her marvelously talented and supremely confident fiancé will admit as an equal.

 

Alexander has only ever made one criticism of his _dear Laurens_ , of _the_ _honest warmth of his temper_ , when Laurens is appointed envoy extraordinary to France, despite insisting that Alexander is more suited to the post.

 

It is obvious, then, that Laurens esteems Alexander as much as Alexander him, for it is an astonishingly selfless thing to try to do, for country and for friend, standing aside, in the way of his own ambitions. She is glad with all her heart that Alexander has such a friend to call his own.

 

Selfishly, she is equally glad Laurens failed to persuade Congress of Alexander’s worthiness; she does not want Alexander to sail away from her so shortly after their wedding, or to accompany him so far from her beloved sisters and father.

 

But it is only a matter of time before Congress sees Alexander the way she does, the way Washington and Laurens and her father do.

 

\---

 

_December 1780_

 

She cannot deny engaging in some slight bit of scheming amidst her own bliss when her wedding is finally upon them. Even if she had not meant to have Angelica as her maid of honor – and she did (who else?), she would have done for the sake of throwing her together with such a prize of a man as Colonel Laurens. She knows the esteem in which Angelica holds Alexander, knows them to be very much alike in their views and their tastes, and so she has some hopes that Angelica will share Alexander’s esteem for his friend, and will follow her in happiness soon enough.

 

And yet – they hardly speak, do not dance, and she feels a twinge of disappointment, another of sadness, and a third of guilt.

 

\---

 

One morning in her parlor, during one of their usual visits for tea since Eliza left their father’s house for her own snug establishment, Angelica looks uncharacteristically anxious, twisting her hands in her lap, looking down at them rather than across to her.

 

“You’re making me very anxious, dearest. What is the matter?”

 

Angelica looks up at her, and her eyes are just . . . _Helpless_. “Could you post this, please?” Angelica hands her a sealed envelope, addressed to Alexander.

 

“Of course.”

 

Angelica looks only marginally calmer. What could the letter possibly contain that would make her so anxious?

 

“If I may ask –”

 

“You may not,” Angelica interrupts, suddenly the sharp elder sister having her authority called into question.

 

“Why should I post something if I am ignorant of its contents?” she demands, tracing her husband’s name in her sister’s neat, bold hand. _Lt. Col. Alexander Hamilton_. Angelica writes beautifully, her letters as well-formed in their appearance as in their meaning, but she always applies so much pressure that it is usually impossible for her to use the back of the sheet, to their father’s indulgent irritation. “It could be treasonous, for all I know.” Of course, it wouldn’t be. Angelica has been ever a staunch patriot.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

 

“Then what is it?”

 

“I need Alexander to pass on a message,” Angelica says very stiffly.

 

“What message?”

 

Angelica retorts, “Why an interrogation?”

 

“ _Angelica._ ”

 

Her sister finally grits out, “A message to Colonel Laurens.”

 

“I see,” she says, not entirely able to contain the smugness in her voice. She’d not thought they’d hit it off, had barely seen them speak, but they must have –

 

“No, you _don’_ t see,” Angelica snaps. “It would be easier, if it were what you think. I – after your wedding reception . . . Well, weddings are very romantic, and . . . we got carried away.” Angelica finishes in a rush, looking away a moment before looking back at her more steadily.

 

“Angelica!” she says in disbelief, in the same tone she used when Angelica played a prank on their cousins or Angelica would use on her when she climbed a tree and tore up a perfectly lovely dress. But this isn’t some childish scrape, and her stomach churns, because Angelica would probably never say anything, would put the lapse out of her mind forever, unless –

 

“I’m pregnant.”

 

There were consequences.

 

She doesn’t know what to do besides pull Angelica close, comfort Angelica as Angelica has always comforted her.

 

\---

 

“Will you write as well?” Angelica asks softly, later, after ignoring her advice to write more bluntly, and directly to Laurens.

 

Her Alexander is cleverer than most men by half, but he would have no reason to think Angelica’s carefully phrased message particularly urgent in light of more immediate martial matters.

 

She shakes her head. Her mind is too distracted to allow her to put thoughts to paper. She has, however, privately given things an outer limit. If from a too-long silence from Washington’s camp she concludes either that Alexander did not pass on Angelica’s message or that Laurens misunderstood it or chose not to act upon it . . .

 

Well, she will take care of things, as she knows Angelica would have done for her.

 

\---

 

“Colonel Laurens to see you, Mrs. Hamilton,” announces her single maid. It seems fortune continues to favor the bold even when they are not so very bold, and Angelica’s message speedily conveyed and understood, when John Laurens appears at her door as quickly as she allowed herself to expect.  

 

“John,” she says familiarly, rising with a wide smile.

 

It will do no good to berate him. Angelica’s vague mutterings, during which she was never quite able to meet Eliza’s eyes, about the romance of weddings aside, she knows men – especially soldiers – are far more knowledgeable and experienced than women in such matters, which confers a natural advantage. Which means her sister was taken advantage of, even if Angelica’s pride will never admit such a notion.

 

But she will be kind, she will be all things gracious, so long as he does his duty. They will be family, after all, though she wishes it were not like this. “It’s very good to see you.”

 

“I promised Alexander I’d call –”

 

Had he confessed all to Alexander, then?

 

“And you’ll stay for supper, of course. I won’t take no for an answer.”

 

“I know better,” he says agreeably.

 

“Good.” She calls for the maid, and gets to the point. “Mary, go to my father’s and tell my sister she’s invited to supper tonight and Colonel Laurens will be joining us.”

 

“Which one?”

 

“Angelica, of course,” she says, hoping she conveys a world of warning in the look she gives him, even as she continues to smile. “Peggy has other plans this evening.”

 

“Of course,” he echoes.

 

“You must sit, of course, and tell me all about my Alexander in the meantime, and how the army fares . . .”

                                                                                                      

\---

 

Angelica should have had plenty of time to make herself ready by now. “I worry Angelica may have lost track of the time. Would you –”

 

He sits up straighter, pausing just a moment too long before volunteering his services. “Of course. I’ll be back soon.”

 

“No need to hurry,” she says sweetly.

 

In a few hours, if need be, she will send a note home that Angelica is spending the night with her.

 

\---

 

Peggy arrives early that morning, inviting herself for breakfast while Angelica is still abed.

 

The moment Laurens had left (and what an uncomfortable leave-taking _that_ had been), Angelica had run to the nearest chamber pot and vomited violently.

 

She’d only given her sister water to rinse away the sick feeling, led her to her own bed, and put a bowl on the bedside table in case the urge to void her stomach arose once more.

 

But her sister is still dead to the world, seeming relaxed in sleep, if one did not know how to tell that even in sleep she does not forget. Her left hand, now adorned with an admittedly lovely gold ring, lies loosely over the blanket, resting protectively on her still-flat belly.    

 

“Normally I wouldn’t just invite _myself_ , but since you didn’t invite me for supper either –”

 

“I was merely –”

 

“Trying to throw Angelica and Colonel Laurens together. I might be younger than you, ‘Liza, but I’m not stupid,” Peggy says petulantly. But her sulking is immediately set aside at the possibility of gossip, and she grins. “Did it go well? It must have, without me in the way to steal his attention.” When she says nothing, Peggy pouts. “We did dance together, but I’m only joking. Oh, you’re no fun! I’ll go ask Angelica then.”

 

She grabs Peggy by the arm before Peggy can barge into her bedroom.

 

“Let me go –”

 

“She’s feeling rather ill, and she’s sleeping.”

 

Peggy frowns. “She must be, if she’s still abed.”

 

“So leave her be, and don’t you dare badger her when she does wake up.”

 

Peggy only pouts again.

 

\---

 

_My dearest Alexander,_

_I take this opportunity to write you a brief note by a messenger in whom you have absolute faith. I am well, as are all the family –_

Well enough. Alexander will know soon enough.

_Your friend will have news for you, and you must wish him joy. I will not spoil the telling by saying more._

Adieu _, my love. I hope for you daily and dream of you often._ _Pray your every wish succeeds is the ardent wish of your affectionate Betsey_

 

\---

 

When Angelica must finally confess all, their father’s fury is a terrifying thing to behold.

 

“To slink off with _my_ daughter, like a thief in the night! I have half a mind to go to Washington’s camp –”

 

“Daddy, you _cannot_ ,” she interrupts desperately.

 

“And it would be pointless. He’ll have gone to France by now,” Angelica adds. Good Lord, _why_ has her sense abandoned her now, of all times, to speak up? She should remain quiet and let their father vent his anger quickly so he will calm down all the sooner.

 

“What were you _thinking_ , you stupid girl?” Daddy demands.

 

“I wasn’t,” Angelica says, too quietly, and she wonders if she is the only one who understands what such an admission must cost her sister. “And then – then I knew there was only one thing to do.”

 

“Do you know what people will think? Will say? Do you _care_?”

 

“I do, and I’m sorry, but . . . they would have anyway,” Angelica continues, justifying what their father will think is unjustifiable. “I made a mistake, and I thought it would be best to fix it quickly. It couldn’t wait until he returned.”

 

“Has your –” his back is to Angelica, but from her vantage point she can see him in profile, the way his lips curl into an uncharacteristic sneer, and she knows whom he speaks of – “husband seen fit to provide for you?”

 

He has, Angelica explained to her upon returning from her elopement, when she was somewhat restored, told her where she ought to draw drafts, the address neatly copied out for Angelica to keep, of the same firm Alexander has asked her to draw upon.

 

Angelica nods, paling. “Will you toss me out, then?” Everything happened so quickly that it isn’t as if her sister has a house let. Of course, she will gladly have Angelica in her own home for as long as she needs or wishes –

 

Daddy scoffs, but when he turns to face her, the angry set of his mouth does not match his eyes. “You know I could not. But God help _him_ when he crosses my threshold.”

 

\---

_. . . I must confess myself astonished by the intelligence conveyed to me upon Laurens’s return! It does, however, not surprise me upon further consideration that our sister should win him where other women could not tempt him, for you Schuylers are perfectly extraordinary, my lovely charmer._

_I am, as I imagine you are, and our dear father, rather disappointed by the_ suddenness _of it all. I expect our father has thus not taken the news well, and will be sure to do my part to soothe his ruffled feathers and make things easy for all parties when we are reunited . . ._

\---

_May 1781_

 

 _I laugh at my sister because she wants to form a harem_ , she wrote Alexander while he courted her, back when she wrote him letters nightly, her life better with every letter that he wrote her.

Angelica had looked over shoulder, exclaiming, _“I’m just saying, if you really loved me, you would share him!”_

 

Now, when her sister looks at her husband with her heart in her eyes, she is not angry.

 

 _A saint_ , some would call her.

 

 _A fool_ , others would say.

 

A monster she knows herself to be. She claimed a man better suited to her sister for herself, and all but pushed her sister at a man who might have ruined her.

 

 _Best of wives, worst of sisters._ She loves her sister, but she loved her husband more the night that it mattered most, and she doesn’t deserve either of them. But she will share them always in a vain attempt to atone for what she’s done.

 

\---

 

_September 1781_

 

“So what will you call her?” she asks, running a finger over her niece’s impossibly soft cheek.

 

“I’m naming her after the best woman I know.” Angelica looks up from the baby to give her a significant look.

 

 _Oh, Angelica._ She can feel tears fill her eyes. “I don’t know that she looks like a Margarita,” she manages. As far as she can tell, the baby seems to resemble Laurens more than anyone in their family, and thank God for that.

 

“No false modesty, Betsey.”

 

“Are you trying to make me cry?” she demands in a choked voice.

 

“No. It’s only an added benefit.” Angelica sounds little better, but she has no idea.

 

Angelica would never describe herself as trusting, or as kind, and yet to Eliza she is both, and Eliza hardly deserves that, or the honor of her firstborn as namesake.

 

(Not at all.)

 

“You should rest; it’s been a long day.” Of course, Angelica would worry about _her_ , never mind that she’s just been through an ordeal herself, ever the older sister. “Send Peggy in if you like, nothing to put her off now,” Angelica says with a sideways smile.

 

“I’m fine,” she lies. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

\---

 

_June 1783_

It is true that she is _lazy at the pen_ , as Alexander puts it. But that is not what stops her from replying to Angelica. It is that she has no idea what to say to her sister across the sea.

 

In the end, she says nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The bit about the General’s view of Alexander comes from basically all his letters mentioning Ham. Eliza’s views and Peggy’s actions are a bit different from what I discussed in comments in earlier chapters.
> 
> \- Finally, for the record, before anyone comes for me because I know there are a lot of people who feel very strongly about the fandom being unfair to Eliza, making her OOC, etc., this does not necessarily reflect what I, the author, think of Eliza. This is what Eliza, in this world, thinks of herself and grappling with the fact that her getting what she wanted means Angelica could not. This is also not to say that Eliza would be OK with Angelica and Alexander ever having more than a very close friendship. Eliza is very generous in her assumptions about other people and their motivations, but not to herself, and she isn’t always right. (See: Laurens’s motivations for putting Alexander up for the envoy extraordinary position.) This is not an attempt to make Angelica a saint or Eliza a terrible person; recall that Angelica views Eliza as positively as Eliza does her. But they are both imperfect, as are John, Alexander, and basically anyone in this story, in the musical, and of course in the actual history.


	9. Part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His life will never be dull with Angelica in it, that much is certain.

As time goes on, it is obvious that Angelica is just the same as he remembers from the brief encounters of before, entrancing every man she meets – British, French, their countrymen. In truth, every man – and perhaps some of the women; it would not surprise him – in Paris, all but dour John Adams and her own husband, is half in love with her, although he at least finds himself admiring her intellect. And something in him is touched watching her with Lizzie, the way her sharp edges and her keen, knowing eyes soften with affection.

 

His life will never be dull with her in it, that much is certain.

 

\---

 

On occasion, he’ll stick his head in the door of the nursery on his way to bed; of late, the room is always still and silent, Lizzie slumbering peacefully, and it eases his mind.

 

On this occasion, however, Lizzie is not quite asleep, and Angelica is seated in the comfortable rocking chair she’d specially commissioned, clearly ready to sleep herself, in her nightgown, hair loosely braided for bed. She is reading aloud, but her material of choice is no childish tale. “. . . _Politics is the science of human happiness – and the felicity of societies depends on the constitutions of government under which_ –”

 

“Are you trying to bore her to sleep?” he interrupts, lip curling slightly in amusement.

 

“I won’t have her be empty-headed,” Angelica says, chin tilted defiantly as she looks up from the pamphlet to him.

 

“I don’t think she should be,” he says at once, not thinking it a matter to argue over. It had been harmless teasing. Or so he’d thought. “It’s only that it sounds well beyond the comprehension of even the most intelligent child, and she is not yet two,” he explains with a conciliatory shrug.

 

“That’s true,” she agrees, easily, but her chin is still set very decidedly.

 

“What is tonight’s edifying text called?”

 

“Mr. Adams’s _Thoughts on Government_. I mean to discuss it with him, given the opportunity. I understand it was his answer to _Common Sense_.”

 

“Was it?” he asks idly.

 

“That is what Sarah said, and it certainly seems so. He is more conservative in his prescriptions than Mr. Paine was in his.”

 

“Well, Paine is fairly radical in his notions, even for my taste. It made for lively discussion.”

 

“You’ve met him?” she asks, immediately closing the pamphlet. It dangles loosely, carelessly from her hand as she leans forward intently.

 

“Yes,” he answers slowly, surprised at the intensity of her interest. “He accompanied me on my first diplomatic mission. I was glad to have him; he was very helpful in making our case to the king and his advisers.”

 

“What’s he like?”

 

“Very clever, of course,” he begins, wracking his mind to think what else might interest her. “Had a bit of a temper when you disagreed with him, but better at controlling it than I am at times. He’s an unexceptional-looking fellow, neither ugly nor handsome –”

 

“Hmm, that’s disappointing. One expects brilliant looks to accompany a brilliant mind, and don’t lecture me about not judging a book by its cover,” she continues quickly, before he can even open his mouth to cite the aphorism.

 

“I won’t bother,” he assures her, looking away from her to Lizzie. “She’s asleep,” he adds quietly.

 

She rises silently and follows him out to the room they share, still.

 

“I could tell you about this, when I’m done with it, if you like,” she offers as she pulls back the quilt. “And tell him we’ve discussed it – I expect it would flatter his vanity.”

 

“You’ve taken the measure of him.” _And speedily._ “He’s a vain man –”

 

“Though he tries to hide it,” she finishes for him. “It can only help you, in working with him, for him to feel you admire him.”

 

\---

 

“There is wisdom in Adams’s ideas,” Angelica says, apropos of nothing after he has handed her into their carriage and climbed in after her the following evening. Her jewels glitter so brightly he half-fears being blinded; they are going to court, to Versailles, and she must _sparkle_ , bright as a Roman candle. Anything less will be a horrific _faux pas_. “Guarding against self-serving men in government.”

 

“He’s a pessimist.”

 

“He’s a realist,” she counters. “If men were angels, no government would be necessary.”

 

“As we are not, there must be checks not only upon the governed, but also the governors,” he concludes.

 

“Indeed,” she says thoughtfully, and that is that for the rest of the trip.

 

He cannot quite decide if she’s distracted thinking of the evening ahead or still thinking about the need for governing men.

 

\---

 

He’d been formally presented to the Queen of France as part of the presentation of his credentials to the king, but that had been all; she would not remember, of course.

 

“ _Colonel Laurens!_ ” she exclaims loudly, girlish, proving him wrong; it is not the stately behavior he expects of a queen. “ _Un ami de mon cher Fersen est_ _toujours un ami à moi._ ”

 

He bows and kisses her hand, and to his surprise she demands that he ask her to dance.

 

As he promised Alexander, he acquits himself brilliantly. He may not dance frequently, but he had the skill drilled into him; no true gentleman could do without it.

 

When they are done and he bows to her in closing once more, he looks up to see Angelica give him a nod, as if to say _well done_. Had she expected him to make a fool of himself? No – she has yet to be introduced to the queen. “Your Majesty,” he says respectfully. “May I introduce my wife to you?”

 

“ _Bien sûr!_ _Allons-y_ ,” she assents genially, surprising him.

 

He would have expected her to stand and wait for Angelica to be brought to her. He offers his arm, and she takes it, and he sees Angelica’s brows rise in surprise from across the room as they make their way towards her.

 

His wife very nearly manages to conceal her republican distaste for humbling herself before a royal; he suspects he may be the only one to see it, and winces sympathetically as he takes in her perfectly executed curtsey. Once Angelica has weathered that painful trial, however, she and the queen are quickly and mutually charmed.

 

“You might expect an invitation to the _petit Trianon_ ,” he tells Angelica quietly after the queen has fluttered away.

 

“I hear the queen was very taken with you,” Lafayette says as he walks up to them with a passably attractive fellow who is most certainly not one of Lafayette’s countrymen, and he knows all the Americans in Paris –

 

“Gossip spreads in mere moments here,” he says disbelievingly.

 

“Laurens, you may remember _Monsieur_ Church,” Lafayette continues, gesturing to the man beside him.

 

Now that he looks at the man more closely, he finds him vaguely familiar, but his name is not, not at all. “I –”

 

“You would have known me as Carter, during the war,” the older man says with an affable smile. “I was Commissary General.”

 

“I expect there is a story behind that.”

 

“A very fantastical one,” Angelica answers for the stranger, extending her hand with practiced ease for Church’s kiss, who takes it up readily. “Mr. Church.”

 

Once he has released Angelica’s hand, Church shakes his head. “None of that, Angelica.”

 

“You will make me seem very naughty,” Angelica scolds, teasing. “What will my husband think, and Lafayette?”

 

“As a former suitor, am I not permitted some share of familiarity, my dear? A small boon for a man who lost out on the greatest prize of all?”

 

Her laughter is like the tinkling of bells. “I suppose.”

 

“I must know, sir,” Church says, addressing him now. “How you persuaded this woman to run away with you when I could not. I should like to have more success in future suits.”

 

“You must find my successor in your affections at a wedding. Other people’s weddings are very romantic,” Angelica answers smoothly for him.

 

“It seemed one moment I was toasting the freedom my friend had given up to her sister, and the next minute I was myself becoming a benedict,” he adds, inspired. It is not untrue. He has merely omitted a few details.

 

“Well, you chose your warden wisely, Colonel,” Church says, drawing a playful huff from Angelica, “and I like intelligent men, so I will insist upon our being very great friends.”

 

\---

 

When at last Angelica deems their residence ready for evening entertainment, she launches her career as hostess in truly grand fashion, her _salon_ full to bursting with diamonds of the first water, and many of the great men of France.

 

He hasn’t given much thought to their finances since his warning to Angelica, but wonders at the cost of the _fête_ when Adams remarks on the generosity of their hospitality. Angelica will have planned responsibly, he hopes, putting it out of his mind to think instead of the benefits that will arise from it. “My wife will be pleased to hear you found her hospitality unstinting,” he says cordially, although he thinks Adams meant it as a criticism. He was frankly surprised that Adams even accepted the invitation; he is not a very sociable man. “Speaking of Angelica, she was very impressed with your _Thoughts on Government_ , sir, and recommended it to me.”

 

Adams suddenly looks much less dour. “Is that so?”

 

“I expect I would have read it sooner, if not for the tumult of the war. But I was equally impressed once I did, and I do believe that our country ought to heed your suggestions.”

 

Adams flushes with pleasure. “You are a man of great sense, like your father.”  

 

Fersen comes up beside him just then, finishing his champagne with a gulp and putting the empty glass down on the nearest surface; Adams makes a face at the intrusion. “Your wife has assembled a most charming party, _mon ami_. The queen herself would have wished to come tonight, if Mrs. Laurens had presumed to invite her.”

 

He laughs. “You exaggerate.”

 

“Not at all; Marie delighted in attending social gatherings beyond the gates of Versailles before our countrymen began to judge her so harshly. In disguise, of course. But this is no masked ball and, with the _crème de la crème_ present tonight, she could not go undetected.”

 

“You must tell Angelica yourself then; she will consider it the highest of compliments.”

 

“I shall, later; she seems rather occupied at present.”

 

He follows Fersen’s gaze: Angelica is speaking with Noailles, Noailles listening intently, leaning in very close to catch her words until his sister-in-law approaches. “You cannot – how you say? – _monopolize_ the hostess all night, Louis,” Adrienne chides, threading her arm through Angelica’s. Whatever she whispers to Angelica as she leads her away toward Mrs. Jay and Mrs. Cosway, a young woman painter with whom he is not personally acquainted, makes Angelica laugh with abandon.

 

Lafayette joins them, with Franklin then, who naturally must comment upon the ladies. “You are lucky boys; they almost make me wish to be married.”

 

“All of Paris would mourn on your wedding day, sir,” Lafayette says with a broad grin, knowing Franklin will never do any such thing.

 

He resists the urge to roll his eyes, and Adams only shakes his head.

 

\---

“I didn’t know you take snuff,” Angelica says idly one day, looking behind him at the shelves in his office after they review the household accounts. It was quick enough, nothing unusual, though it is still new to them both.

 

“I don’t. But one doesn’t turn up one’s nose at a snuffbox gifted by the king. Certainly not after he agrees to give us more funds for guns and ships –”

 

“And so the balance shifts,” she finishes wryly. “Because of your diplomatic skill.”

 

“Lafayette had something to do with it as well,” he counters, hating to take undeserved credit. They could not have won the war without Lafayette; his past efforts, and his letters of recommendation to aid John’s, were invaluable. “But if we’d depended on Dr. Franklin –”

 

Angelica tilts her chin up, suddenly looking very interested, her eyes all but saying _do tell_.

 

He does. It’s . . . good, to talk things through with someone else in this way. He cannot speak with Alexander now and it cannot be the same with Lafayette, as much as his friend loves America. “He’s too comfortable here, cares too much for his friendships with the French, and his friends are nothing like Lafayette. They care not half so much for our country, and he won’t push hard enough. Didn’t.” He pauses, recalling one of Franklin’s more . . . interesting pieces of advice. “ _My boy_ , he’d say, _early to bed and early to rise doesn’t get us supplies. Diplomacy happens at night_.” He shakes his head. “He was wrong, of course.”

 

Angelica frowns. “It doesn’t seem unreasonable to me that if you socialize, make friends with people –”

 

He laughs; he can’t help it. “That wasn’t quite what he meant.”

 

“What did he mean?” she demands, frown deepening.

 

He looks away.

 

“Well?” she insists.

 

She really is going to make him explain, isn’t she? “There wasn’t anyone I was trying to persuade who’d have been convinced to give us supplies because we . . . jumped into bed,” he finally says, uncomfortably.

 

“Would you have done, if there had been?”

 

“No. Of course not,” he lies quickly. He would’ve done whatever had to be done, though it would have been distasteful to him, an absolute last recourse, unlike Franklin, who delights in bedchamber diplomacy.

 

“Have you eaten?” Angelica asks pleasantly, abruptly changing the subject. When he shakes his head, she calls for trays to be brought in for both of them. “You really shouldn’t work through meals,” she chides.

 

He doesn’t bother to protest that sometimes it is necessary.

 

“Anyway, have you had a chance to speak to Adams about his pamphlet?”

 

“He was just as pleased as expected,” he replies. “Well-played, wife.”

 

Angelica scoffs, but can’t quite hide her self-satisfaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “If men were angels, no government would be necessary” comes from Federalist 51.
> 
> Un ami de mon cher Fersen est toujours un ami à moi = A friend of my dear Fersen’s is always a friend to me.
> 
> Bien sûr! Allons-y = Of course! Let’s go.
> 
> Thomas Paine actually did go to France with John.
> 
> Historically, per Founders, John Barker Church and Jeremiah Wadsworth went to France in July 1783 to settle accounts owed them by the French government because they had furnished supplies for the French forces in America during the American Revolution.
> 
> I can’t quite tell from Wikipedia when Maria Cosway was first in Paris, although the earliest I can place her is 1786, so I’m likely taking a bit of artistic license on the dates, and more generally in my characterization of her and other historical figures, as well as who was acquainted with whom and when.


	10. Part 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course, he should have expected nothing less from a woman who reads a toddling girl political pamphlets to lull her to sleep.

He is not quite done with his dinner when Angelica lays down her fork and knife.

 

“You aren’t hungry, then?”

 

“I was very much, waiting on you –” a hint of a scold – “But I’m quite satisfied now –”

 

“Happy to hear it –”

 

“And even if I weren’t, a proper lady never clears her plate, of course.”

 

“Lord help my sisters if they failed to finish their suppers with that reasoning.”

 

“Are they very stout?” Angelica asks over-innocently.

 

“My sisters are lovely, thank you very much,” he replies, perhaps more miffed than if she’d insulted him personally.

 

“Ah, so you are fond of them. I couldn’t quite tell.”

 

“I am.”

 

Her lips curl into a mischievous smirk. “I only wanted to be sure of it before I proposed inviting them to stay.”

 

“So we’re fit for _house_ guests? Not just the single evening sort? I thought that happy day would never come.”

 

Angelica rolls her eyes. “Don’t make fun. They’re probably prepared to dislike me on sight.”

 

“If you’re worried Patty will have her nose put out of joint –” His sister has too long had to be the lady of the family, in fact if not name, having charge of all that would have been put to their mother’s care if she had lived.

 

“She doesn’t _sound_ it.” Angelica might as well have exclaimed _of course she will_ for all the certainty in her voice. “She wrote me twice, you know.”

 

“I didn’t. Were her letters very illuminating?”

 

“Not in the slightest. She was very polite, and she writes very well –”

 

He nods. His sister lacks Angelica’s . . . verve, but she is nevertheless quite bright.

 

“But it was only innocuous platitudes written with greater sophistication than usual. And no one likes an elopement –”

 

“Ah, yes, but elopements more often than not result in unequal matches, are necessitated by that inequality. Hardly a concern in the instant case. Were it not for that, I would advise you to concern yourself more with my father than my sisters –”

 

His father’s reaction to their hasty marriage had found him at Paris two years ago; it had been an exercise in restraint of anger and other distasteful emotions.

_. . . Through all the changing scenes of life, you know my mind, and thus you must know the great shock your favor of February inst. has visited upon me._ _You also know, of course, that there is nothing left for me to do in face of this most disobliging conduct on your part but pray you have not visited ruin upon yourself and this family. As to that, I must thank the Almighty you have at the very least not entered into a_ mésalliance _. As a loving father must, I also pray God Miss Schuyler will be to you the faithful bosom friend and companion your dear mother was to me, and as devoted to your children . . ._

 

“But your name assuaged my father, and my sisters will take their cue from him in that.”

 

“And my fortune?” Angelica asks impertinently.

 

“He would not have fancied a penniless daughter-in-law,” he admits, smiling despite himself, shaking his head slightly. “Your father must be an indulgent man.”

 

“Whatever do you mean?”

 

“You say everything you wish to that comes into your head. He must have given you full free rein as a child.”

 

“Is that what you consider indulgence?” He has but a half-moment to consider the question before Angelica continues, “Then you shall be a very indulgent father, or I will make your life _very_ difficult.” Her tone is incongruously sweet, and leaves him vaguely alarmed.

 

Of course, he should have expected nothing less from a woman who reads a toddling girl political pamphlets to lull her to sleep.

 

\---

 

Another evening, another party. Large parties are perhaps the most tedious part of his diplomatic duties; he has always preferred more intimate gatherings, where real conversation can be had beyond murmured pleasantries and inanities from which he must attempt to extract deeper meaning. He is always pleased to be freed from useless chatter, the more quickly the better.

 

Tonight, he blesses Adrienne in his thoughts as she draws the comte de Vergennes into conversation. He had to speak to the foreign minister, of course, but the fewer words exchanged, the better for all involved. The marquise de Lafayette is a saint; she knows how disagreeable he and her husband find the man, how they both resent Vergennes’s disdain for America and her ministers, save his friend Franklin. Mrs. Jay quickly and dutifully joins in.

 

He looks up as the last notes of the current dance fade to see Angelica and Church nod at one another. Church offers her his arm to lead her away from the musicians; she takes it, and they make their way to the edges of the ballroom, heads bent together in conversation.

 

As they come closer, realizes then, with something like surprise, that he has never danced with his wife. Always there is a conversation to be had or another whom he – or, more frequently, she – must partner at gatherings at which such opportunities present themselves. When she makes her way to him, she begins to ask how his conversation went, but he interrupts, “I am happy to tell you exactly what transpired, but first, perhaps a dance? Or will your curiosity overwhelm you?”

 

“Very nearly kill me, but I will bear it,” she assures him, threading her arm through his as he leads the way back to the center of the ballroom. “As you did Vergennes. Adrienne and Sarah are godsends, are they not?”

 

He ought to have known she orchestrated his salvation. “God _bless_ you,” he says fervently before they must set themselves in position.

 

Angelica simply smiles.

 

They are well-matched, the pair of them, he concludes as they glide faultlessly through the motions of the dance. Not quite effortless, the small gallantries Lafayette so harshly castigated him for failing to compliment her with come more naturally now also, and he kisses the back of her hand when they are through.

 

His wife only blinks at him in surprise.

 

\---

_My dear Laurens,_

_It is an age, my friend, since I have received a letter from you._ Pas un mot depuis que Madame votre épouse arrive à Paris, _but I am a good-natured man and will not tire of speaking to a deaf man._ _However silent you may please to be, I will nevertheless remind you of a friend who loves you tenderly and who by his attachment desires a great share in your affection . . ._

 

He shakes his head fondly. Of course, the letter he sent so quickly after Angelica’s arrival must not have reached Alexander by the time he got it into his head to believe himself neglected.

 

\---

“You will have to do me the favor to send a carriage for my sisters,” he tells Lafayette over supper one evening. “Patty will never trust a carriage driver in my employ again.”

 

“Why ever not?” Angelica asks, brow wrinkling.

 

“I once ordered a spectacularly frightening carriage ride for us, to test her nerves. She was a brave Spartan girl, did not betray a hint of fear.”

 

“If you ever dare do such a thing to Lizzie, I will slit your throat,” Angelica promises. It’s obvious that she is deadly serious despite her tone, which is just light enough for them all to indulge in the polite fiction that she is only teasing him.  

 

Inexplicably, he finds himself grinning at the savagery of her protectiveness. “I was young and foolish, and of course I wouldn’t do such a thing to my _daughter_ ,” he assures her. “Sisters, however, are a different thing entirely, as well you know.”

 

Angelica eventually nods. “One protects them, while never hesitating to needle them.”

 

“They have to learn somehow,” he says airily. He can see the corner of Angelica’s lips turn up at that, he suspects quite against her will.

 

\---

There were changes of note in Patty when he first saw her again, of course; but when last he had seen her, the traces of the woman had already been evident in the young lady, whilst Polly had only been a little girl, a whirlwind of wild hair and scraped knees. Now the little tomboy who’d run roughshod over their aunt is a delicately pretty young lady, and he realizes he could have crossed his own little sister in the street and not known her.

Angelica’s voice brings him back to the present. “How long has it been since you’ve all been together? I know you were here before we arrived, Patty, but –”

 

“Since before Jack left us for General Washington. I expect you hardly recognize Polly, dear brother, and you will hardly remember him, Polly.”

 

“I remember when you were going to leave, I ran away into the orchard,” Polly tells him quietly.

 

He smiles then, feeling the strangeness begin to dissipate. “Because I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye, so if I couldn’t, I wouldn’t leave.”

 

“But then you came and found me and picked me up, even though I was covered in mud because I’d tripped in a puddle, and ruined that lovely buff coat Father sent you. Aunt Mary frowned so, I think it was the first time she was really angry with me.”

 

He laughs.

 

“Speaking of Father,” Patty interjects. “He wanted to come, of course, but he’s not quite well enough for Paris yet. He does so long to see you again, Jack; I only prevailed upon him to remain and rest with our aunt and uncle’s support, and the physician also.”

 

He doesn’t know how to feel at the notion of seeing his father again. On the one hand, he is relieved to have survived the war, however undeserving of survival he may be, and that his father outlasted his captivity; on the other hand, he knows he has shamed his father, and whatever immediate pleasure his father experienced upon learning that he did not die after the Combahee will surely dissipate now that they are neither of them hovering in the valley of the shadow of death.

 

_. . . No man can doubt of your bravery. Your own good sense will point out the distinction between courage and temerity. Nor need I tell you that it is as much your duty to preserve your own health and strength as it is to destroy an enemy . . ._

What lack of good sense he showed; how disappointed, how ashamed Father must feel at his foolishness, his insubordination.

 

“Is he very ill?”

 

“He is recovering, but ‘tis a slower recovery than he would like. You know he hates to be idle.”

 

_Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, Jack._

After making sure Angelica has his sisters in hand, he holes up in his study until dinner, frowning over the ominous lines in his father’s letter.

 

_. . . As to my health, it is precarious. I am very infirm, but this poor body has been greatly exercised and ‘tis not very young; in this I am also content . . ._

 

His father speaks like an old man, a dying man; surely he cannot be so unwell as that? He cannot.

 

It unnerves him enough that it takes him until just before Angelica calls him for supper to finish his reply.

_My dear father,_

_I thank you for your kind favor carried to me by my sisters. They arrived in good health and spirits, and it seems already the ladies of the family are very pleased with one another. The days ahead could only be made happier in having you here among us, which I heartily pray your health will soon allow._

_The approach of the period which you allude to occasions great anxiety in my mind. I dread being unable to receive your advice at such a distance, when our country would benefit so greatly from your wisdom._

 

_Anticipating the happiness which I shall enjoy in embracing you, I commend myself to your love, and my dear father to God’s protection._

_Your very affectionate J. Laurens_

He shall, of course, write a fuller report to be given over to Patty for safekeeping. His specific impressions of the treaty proceedings cannot be trusted to just any messenger.

 

Angelica gives him a concerned look as he sits down at the head of the table, but supper with his sisters is hardly the time, even if they have been at their father’s side for months and have seen his decline for themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of the first sentence of the letter from Henry John remembers comes from a real letter Henry wrote John. 
> 
> Parts of Alexander’s letter to John comes from letters Lafayette wrote to Alexander. (Alexander was not so great at texting Lafayette back, y’all.)
> 
> The line from Henry’s current letter to John comes from another letter Henry wrote.
> 
> Some parts of John’s letter to Henry come from letters he wrote Henry.


	11. Interlude 4 (a woman who has never been satisfied)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It doesn’t seem fair, after sailing across the Atlantic to improve her situation, that she should be locked in this strange half-existence, a half-marriage, where she shares little more than a name, a child, an occasional opinion, a not-quite-friendship, and a bed with her husband – and the last, not really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone reading, leaving kudos and comments, making art (!), etc.
> 
> Feedback is love and means THE WORLD to me <333
> 
> And hit up my ask box/follow me on tumblr - your3fundamentaltruths

_. . . Your niece has already acquired an impressive collection of French words and an equal number of French admirers and a smaller set of Americans, chief among them Lafayette and Dr. Franklin. She does not accept Colonel Laurens’s attentions half so well, to his chagrin and my own._

_Tell Colonel Hamilton that I shall be very angry if he does not write to me, as I shall be with you if you fail to make proper return._ Adieu, _my dear sister._

_Ever yours, your very affectionate Angelica_

 

\---

 

It hurts her republican nerves to curtsey to the queen of France, but one must do what is required for one’s country. Fortunately, the infamous Marie Antoinette takes a liking to her, and remembers her when next they meet, asking at once that she tell her about America. She has barely begun to acquiesce when the comte d’Artois interrupts.

 

“My dear sister, I should like to meet your new friend.”

 

“Brother, this is Angelica Laurens; Angelica, Charles, comte d’Artois.”

 

“ _Est-ce que toutes les américaines sont aussi belles que vous_ _?_ ” Artois asks before kissing her hand.

 

The youngest of the royal brothers is not only the most charming, but also the only truly handsome one, she determines at once, though she knows his elder brothers only by reputation and sight. The King is not truly ugly, but his heaviness does him no good, while Provence is nearly disfigured in his corpulence.

 

“Take your flirting elsewhere, Charles,” the queen scolds, though her scolding is entirely ruined by her smile. She turns her gaze on Angelica as Artois flutters away. “My brother-in-law thinks himself a charmer, and must ever make his best effort to impress a beautiful lady.”

 

She lowers her eyes modestly a moment. “It is a change,” she admits. “American men are not quite so . . . gallant.” It is unfair to Alexander, she knows, but the rest - It is true of the rest, and not only as compared to the French; even Church –

 

_As a former suitor, am I not permitted some share of familiarity, my dear? A small boon for a man who lost out on the greatest prize of all?_

 

How different things might have been, if she’d climbed out her window six years ago.

 

Whether they would be better, she knows not.

 

(Nor does she wish to know. Certainty might be too painful to bear.)

 

\---

“I didn’t know you take snuff,” she says idly one day, noting the snuffbox on a shelf in John’s office after they review the accounts. She doesn’t know a lot of things about him, really.

 

“I don’t. But one doesn’t turn up one’s nose at a snuffbox gifted by the king. Certainly not after he agrees to give us more funds for guns and ships –”

 

“And so the balance shifts,” she finishes wryly. “Because of your diplomatic skill.”

 

“Lafayette had something to do with it as well,” he counters, with what seems like genuine modesty. “But if we’d depended on Dr. Franklin –”

 

She tilts her chin up, eying him with more than idle interest now. It’s the first time she’s heard him say something less than complimentary about someone he’s worked with, military man or diplomat.

 

“He’s too comfortable here, cares too much for his friendships with the French, and his friends are nothing like Lafayette. They care not half so much for our country, and he won’t push hard enough. Didn’t.”

 

It is not dissimilar to Sarah’s assessment of why the commissioners disagree amongst themselves, but it will not do for him to antagonize Franklin. 

 

“ _My boy_ , he’d say, _early to bed and early to rise doesn’t get us supplies. Diplomacy happens at night_.” He shakes his head. “He was wrong, of course.”

 

“It doesn’t seem unreasonable to me that if you socialize, make friends with people –”

 

He laughs – how rarely she’s heard him laugh; it is only Lafayette who has managed to coax it from him in her presence. It’s a knowing thing, and she feels herself flush, because she’s clearly missed something and he’s laughing _at her_. “That wasn’t quite what he meant.”

 

“What did he mean?” she demands, not wanting to remain ignorant a moment longer.

 

“There wasn’t anyone I was trying to persuade who’d have been convinced to give us supplies because we . . . jumped into bed,” he finally says, uncomfortably.

 

“Would you have done, if there had been?”

 

Now he’s the one flushing, and she feels vindicated. “No. Of course not.”

 

He’s lying, of course. He’s easy enough to understand. From what Alexander has said of him, he’d have sliced his own wrists open in the name of the revolution; a little bed sport would have been nothing in comparison.

 

She can’t even say she’d have held it against him, so long as he didn’t embarrass her. “Have you eaten?” she asks pleasantly, knowing he has not.

 

\---

 

Although she would trade all her new friends to have her sisters with her, she cannot deny that one of the advantages of her sojourn in France is those same friends. She is fondest of Adrienne, she thinks because the marquise de Lafayette reminds her most of Eliza; Sarah is stimulating and congenial company also; Maria –

 

(Maria, who _accidentally_ catches the corner of her lips instead of her cheek when bidding her a private farewell after another cozy tea, murmuring _lovely Angelica_ and lingering barely just too long: long enough for even a neophyte such as herself to recognize her friend’s intent but quick enough it can be waved away and forgotten if they both wish it so.

 

They both wish it so. _For now, at least_ , she thinks involuntarily, with the slightest shiver.)

 

And of course, the great men with whom she converses and dances and flirts, from Dr. Franklin to Artois. Even John Adams, who appears to like _no one_ in Paris, seems pleased enough with her.

 

\---

 

 _. . ._ Mademoiselle _grows prettier and cleverer by the day, and dare I say_ fond _of Colonel Laurens, or nearly. She now prefers him to Dr. Franklin, though not yet to the Marquis. Franklin, in turn, has switched his admiring allegiance from_ Mlle. _to_ Mme. Madame _has just received word from the comte d’Artois, the King’s youngest brother, that he shall take dinner with us; I must make untold preparations for so_ amiable _a guest._

_I have not forgot your request for a table set of Wedgwood, but I shall not send it_ until you write me _, and two or three short lines will not suffice. Else I shall send for it from London instead of Paris, though the latter would be more beautiful, and I know Alexander likes the beautiful in every way; the beauties of nature and art are not lost on him. Tell him that I do not write to him because I take so much pleasure in it that I ought to do penance. Besides, what will Betsey say to his correspondence and mine? Why she need only cry_ Atlantic _!_

Monsieur mon mari _asks me to remember him affectionately to you and yours._ _My love to Philip, and_ _embrace my dear Hamilton for me_ à la française _._

Votre très affectueuse sœur _Angelica_

 

\---

She’s not sure what she expected of her husband when she arrived in Paris; her memories of their singular night together had been a vague blur consisting mostly of the sensation of champagne fizzing down her throat, the unshed tears burning behind her eyes, pain that was not _quite_ so bad as she’d been led to believe, and a strange tension that could not be dissipated. She’d woken weary and sore in body and heart, would likely not have risen from her bed if not for the need to burn and replace her sheets.

 

She recalls the way their hands had not seemed to _fit_ when he’d come to get her for their hasty vows, how he’d dropped her hand as though it burned him as soon as he’d helped her down from the carriage. He’d not been _quite_ so hasty after their vows, and she recalls his hands were warmer than she expected. Rougher, too.

 

The great care he takes with his dress and appearance had been so obvious even then that she expected his hands to match the rest of him. (And now she _knows_ he is nearly as vain of his luxuriant curls as she is of her own dark locks.)

 

Eliza had stifled a laugh when she commented upon it.

 

 _What? I expect it of Alexander –_ She recalled with a shiver she hoped Eliza could not see the way his hand felt when he bowed and lifted hers to his lips to kiss it.

 

_Because he was poor as a church mouse and Laurens a pampered heir? They are soldiers just the same now, dearest. They wield swords, carry muskets, hold a horse’s reins just the same. Even the softest hands would toughen over so many years filled with the tasks of war._

 

His hands are not much changed, but her hand fits more naturally in his when he requests a dance, and the brief touch of his lips to the back of it after they are done is impossibly soft.

 

\---

_My dear brother,_

_I have written you and Betsey twice since I have been at Paris but have not received a line from either of you; have you already forgotten your loving Angelica?_

_Dr. Franklin has the gavel, and he desires to return to America; some talk of your_ dear friend _as his successor. We_ shall see _. Of politics he will surely write you, whilst I lighten my letters with agreeable nonsense until there is something more interesting to tell you._

 

Adieu _. I embrace you and my dearest Betsey with all my heart. My love to you both, and darling Phil. You must do me the favor to write to me very often._

_Yours ever, A. Laurens_

 

\---

 

She finds Lizzie still asleep, and not alone, in the nursery, but holds her tongue until John, sat in the rocking chair, looks up to find her in the doorway. It’s only when she approaches that she notices the sketchbook in his lap. “I did not know I married a portraitist.”

 

“I usually prefer to draw from nature,” he says very quietly. “But now and then I’ve done portraits. Lafayette asked, once during the war, said he did not wish his wife to forget his face –”

 

She thinks of the faded charcoal sketch of Alexander Eliza keeps lovingly stowed away. Eliza had never mentioned who drew it; perhaps Alexander had never told her? “Do you expect to forget Lizzie’s?” she asks instead. Has he perhaps received some new charge –

 

“No,” he says very calmly, eyes still fixed on their sleeping daughter. “But she will grow and change. She changes every day, it sometimes seems.”

 

“It does seem like it,” she agrees, relaxing again.

 

“And it is easier to draw her in repose than awake.” Lizzie does not like to be still.

 

“What will you do with the drawing when you’ve completed it?”

 

“Would you like to have it?” He does not lift his eyes from his sketchbook now.

 

She comes up behind him, leaning over close enough to look, but careful not to touch the rocking chair so as not to disturb his work. There’s something very much _alive_ to it. He’s good. “I would, unless you intended it for yourself.”

 

“I can always draw another.”

 

When he turns his head to look up at her, she notices a smudge of charcoal on his cheekbone.

 

“I’ve no doubt I will; Lizzie is a good subject, and I want to try her in Nuremberg crayons.”

 

She instinctively swipes a thumb across the smudge to get it off, with limited success.

 

He shifts towards her, eyes puzzled.

 

“You have some –” She gestures ineffectually.

 

“Oh. Thank you,” he says with a slight smile, before turning his head back to Lizzie.

 

“Don’t forget Vaughan will be by in the morning,” she reminds him. One of the British commissioners. It can be dismissed purely as a social call, as Dr. Vaughan’s wife Sarah is the daughter of one of Henry Laurens’s business partners. She’s tried to make overtures to Mrs. Vaughan on the strength of that connection, in light of the other American commissioners’ realization that Franklin’s French friends will only get them so far, but Mrs. Vaughan has not been particularly receptive.

 

“I haven’t,” he promises. “I won’t be much longer.”

 

\---

 

She realizes now, with her sisters-in-law in front of her, that she’d never asked how old they were. She knew John was the eldest sibling, of course, and had guessed Martha was about Peggy’s age after the anecdote about the carriage.

 

He didn’t seem to realize she was serious about slitting his throat.

 

But the way he’d spoken about Polly – once he’d talked of Patty, she decided she might as well take the opportunity to ask about Polly . . . Well, she never added the necessary years to the little girl she imagined even if, logically, she ought to have done.

 

It seems John did not either, because he is gaping rather unattractively at the poor girl.

 

She’d fretted all day until they arrived, worried what they’d think of her, hoping Lizzie behaved like the dear charming child everyone else has fallen in love with. She hadn’t anticipated any trouble with John. But having been on the receiving end of his surprised silence in the past, she has the immediate impulse to smooth things over, and Patty, thank goodness, is her ally in doing so.

 

\---

 

“She hadn’t quite got ‘auntie’ by the time we left; my sisters were ‘tie ‘liza and ‘tie ‘eggy,” she says when Polly’s efforts to teach Lizzie to say _Tante Polly_ don’t prove especially fruitful.

 

“I think she’ll learn for _me_ ,” Polly says confidently, grinning, before returning her attention to Lizzie, seated in her lap, who is patting her face and giggling.

 

But for the giggles, Lizzie’s been unusually quiet; usually she’s a chirpy little thing, happy to use all the new words she acquires along with the old favorites.

 

“She looks so much like us,” Polly marvels.

 

She sounds so surprised that it raises Angelica’s hackles. _She’s thirteen_ , she reminds herself. She doesn’t mean anything by it.

 

“ _J’ai beaucoup de taches de rousseur comme toi, ma petite_ ,” Polly says softly to Lizzie.

 

Patty looks up from her piecework, smiling. “It’s like I’m looking at Polly again, at that age. Remember?”

 

John nods with a smile of his own.

 

Like John, his sisters are both curly-haired and freckled, if more faintly. While Patty shares his light eyes also, Polly’s are dark, mysterious.

 

Polly’s cheeks pink slightly, but her voice is haughty when she says, “Then she is very fortunate.”

 

John shakes his head, obviously trying not to laugh.

 

Patty rolls her eyes. “I’ll spare us all any further self-adulation on Mary Eleanor’s part –”

 

Polly glares at her sister; she dislikes her full name.

 

“By changing the subject. Angelica –”  

 

“Yes?” she says, relieved to have reason to set aside her own hopeless project. She is usually competent enough, but this one is a mess.

 

“After you invited us and Father agreed we could come, I wrote Mrs. Vaughan that I would call upon her when we arrived.”

 

“Of course,” she says when Patty’s pause extends, encouragement to continue further. “John says that her family was very kind to your father when he was in the Tower, and to him when he was studying in London.”

 

John nods, but adds nothing further.

 

“Especially her sister,” Polly interjects, looking away from Lizzie again.

 

Patty shoots Polly a quelling look that stops the younger girl dead. “I want to be sure not to interfere with any plans of yours. When might I –”

 

“Why don’t we invite the Vaughans to supper?” she interrupts. She’d meant to do so anyway, and this is the perfect excuse. “With the Jays. We’ll have some others as well. Perhaps Mr. Adams or Mr. Church –”

 

After a quick glance at John, Patty finally says, “Her sister is here as well.”

 

“That’s quite all right. We’ll have a merry group; what’s one more?” She resolves to set a date and write invitations after Lizzie is asleep that night.

 

\---

Adrienne switches to careful, hesitant English one day when they are alone, her sisters-in-law visiting with Mrs. Jay at Dr. Franklin’s, just after she mentions the latest letter from home.

 

Perhaps her longing is too obvious.

 

Or perhaps Adrienne wants to be sure she won’t misinterpret her, even if Adrienne is more likely to misstep in English than she is to misunderstand French.

 

She suspects it is the latter, once Adrienne actually says what she wishes to.

 

“Oh, how you say?” Adrienne mutters to herself, frustrated.

 

“ _En français_ _,_ ” she says.

“ _J’ai peur qu’il y a . . . un chose qui jeté un ombre sur votre mariage, chérie._ ”

 

There’s a momentary flash of shock – she gets the sudden feeling the marquise would say nothing if she weren’t several glasses of wine deep – but she only sighs. “ _Je pense que tu ne te trompe pas_.”

 

“ _Et que vas-tu faire?_ ”

 

“ _Je sais pas_ ,” she says with a tired shrug.

 

But she has to do something, doesn’t she? It doesn’t seem fair, after sailing across the Atlantic to improve her situation, that she should be locked in this strange half-existence, a half-marriage, where she shares little more than a name, a child, an occasional opinion, a not-quite-friendship, and a bed with her husband – and the last, not really.

 

And _that_ hardly seems fair, when so many people of her acquaintance here have both a husband or wife and a lover, sometimes several, to . . . scratch that particular itch, as Sarah Jay had put it, uncharacteristically bluntly when speaking of . . . God, she can’t even remember who. It had been something of a shock at first, how easily people spoke of such things here, but she is getting more used to it. It seems the French are rubbing off on them all. 

 

Perhaps that is where she should start.

 

 _You have been much better to me, my dear, since you left America than I have deserved, for you have written to me oftener than I have written to you_ , Alexander wrote. _I will make no apology, for I am sure you will attribute it to anything else rather than to a defect of_ pleasure _in writing to you . . ._

If it gives Alexander half so much _pleasure_ to write her as it is gives her to read his letters, it is a very great pleasure, but she is only a woman, as much a creature of flesh and blood as of mind, and she is young enough to be curious and hungry, and attractive enough that plenty of people would be willing to satisfy that curiosity.

 

 _Are_ willing, and would do so if only she assented. That has been made abundantly clear to her. Dear Maria was but the first. Lord knows Dr. Franklin would tumble her if she pleased – not that she’d want him to – with no compunction as to the fact that she’s the wife of his likely successor. And there are plenty of men closer to her own age who’ve eyed her with interest, flirted with her, let their eyes or their hands linger on her longer than strictly appropriate when dancing. The comte d’Artois is such a one. The vicomte de Noailles is another, but nothing would come of that; he is Adrienne’s brother-in-law, and her sister a good friend as well.

 

 _. . . Although I do not wish to speak ill of our dear father, I am astounded to hear your friend Mme. de Ture thinks him more charming than_ all _our countrymen, and must conclude that you have denied her the pleasure of meeting Laurens. When next I write_ him _, I will be sure to ask if the most charming woman of our country keeps him away from all the pretty_ parisiens . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Title is from "Satisfied."
> 
> \- “Early to bed and early to rise doesn’t get us supplies. Diplomacy happens at night.” comes from LMM’s cut Ben Franklin lyrics.
> 
> \- Historically, Angelica wrote to Eliza saying she’d heard talk that their father or Hamilton would replace Franklin. Given his past role as envoy extraordinary and the circumstances in this story, it doesn’t seem like a stretch that in this AU John would have been spoken of as Franklin’s possible successor instead. (Especially given Franklin’s own letter to John to that effect after John left France to go back to the war.) 
> 
> \- Translations (apologies if they're a bit off, and feel free to let me know!):  
> Est-ce que toutes les américaines sont aussi belles que vous? = are all the American women as beautiful as you?  
> En français = in French  
> J’ai peur qu’il y a . . . un chose qui jeté un ombre sur votre mariage, chérie = I fear that there is something that casts a shadow over your marriage, dear.  
> Je pense tu ne te trompe pas = I think you are not mistaken.  
> Et que vas-tu faire? = And what will you do?  
> Je sais pas = I don’t know.  
> Parisiens = Parisians (male), though that could also mean both male and female Parisians collectively. Parisiennes would be female Parisians. Up to you whether this was an error (since in reality they did often make spelling/grammatical errors, not having the benefit of spell check) or deliberate.
> 
> \- Part of Alexander’s letter to Angelica comes from a letter he wrote her historically in August 1785.


	12. Part 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “By the way, I had a letter from home –”
> 
> “One of your sisters?”
> 
> “Alexander."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some period-typical homophobia/internalized homophobia.
> 
> Art for the last interlude: http://your3fundamentaltruths.tumblr.com/post/157111317412/queentyna-portraits-by-korrontea-story-by
> 
> And thank you for reading, for letting me know what you think, etc. :)

“What do you want her to call you?”

 

“Hmm?” he asks, startled.

 

“You frown so when she calls others by name,” Angelica murmurs as they watch Lizzie squawk a protest at a rather beleaguered Patty, making known her desire to be released to “Lee.”

 

He hadn’t realized.

 

“Well, her version of their names.”

 

Lafayette is “‘fette,” and Lizzie is remarkably good at guessing that her favorite has arrived. He sometimes thinks Lizzie recognizes his friend’s footfalls, and is unreasonably annoyed by it.

 

“It isn’t subtle.”

 

Patty finally gives Lizzie up to her younger sister, presumably to save her ears from permanent harm.

 

He shakes himself out of his reverie, and considers the question. _Father_ , as he refers to his own, is too formal; _Papa_ too French, he thinks; _Daddy_ too –

 

“I don’t think Daddy intended to still be Daddy when we were grown and married, but we are too set in our ways,” Angelica muses.

 

If _the General_ can still be “Daddy” to his grown daughters, then perhaps he must conclude he isn’t too good for the same. “If it isn’t too good for your father . . .”

 

Angelica nods, and he fully expects she will immediately undertake a concerted effort to incorporate the forgotten word into Lizzie’s vocabulary. “By the way, I had a letter from home –”

 

“One of your sisters?”

 

“Alexander. He sends his love, and asks that you be so kind as to write to him if any intelligence is come to hand. Eliza’s been terribly lazy at the pen, and Peggy –” She sighs. “I imagine she’s been very busy.”

 

“How so?”

 

“As Alexander put it, Daddy attributes her uncharacteristic behavior to our example . . .” She trails off meaningfully. He does not catch her drift quickly enough for her taste, and she wiggles the fingers of her left hand at him for emphasis.

 

“Ah, you mean I have been displaced as the greatest scoundrel your father has ever known?” Even without Angelica’s ferocious glare, he knows it to be a poor joke before he is done.

 

Alexander had, regretfully, made it clear just how much the General still glowered at the mere mention of him, but he’d laughed, too, that _he’d be more pleased with me_ – me! – _than you, Laurens._ At the time, Alexander still could not quite believe how very fond of him their father-in-law was, how warm and affectionate the General’s letters to him were. The General’s never written a single word to him, nor he to the General. Perhaps he ought to remedy that oversight. But what could he say to Philip Schuyler that the man’s daughter couldn’t say better?

 

“I can’t believe she would –”

 

“You did,” he points out mildly.

 

“I had good cause to,” she retorts in an undertone, looking pointedly over to Lizzie.

 

“Perhaps she did,” he returns just as quietly. It’s surely not a comforting thought for Angelica, but it is nevertheless a very likely possibility.

 

She sighs again.

 

“Who has she given you for a brother?”

 

“Stephen van Rensselaer. The patroon of Rensselaerswyck, though he won’t come into it entirely until he’s five-and-twenty. He’s a distant cousin of ours; Mother was a van Rensselaer.” She frowns. “I don’t know much of him, and Alexander wrote nothing of the man himself, only the circumstances.”

 

\---

 

He is not especially looking forward to coming face-to-face with Martha Manning once more, and he could strangle Polly for hinting at the reason why. (How did she even _guess_ –)

 

He’d rather not think of Mattie ever again, if he could help it, but he isn’t being given a choice, is he?

When Jemmy –

 

He could not keep the brother he loved alive, nor could he keep the love of the friend he –

 

_If you see anyone I know among the Carolinians of your acquaintance, present my compliments; I would not be thought to have forgotten them, or my country. Be certain that I never shall forget you. Adieu . . ._

To have been met with that, in the face of –

 

( _You and I may differ, my dear Kinloch, in our political sentiments but I shall always love you from the knowledge I have of your heart_ _. . ._ )

 

It had been too much. He wanted to forget and, though she could not know the whole, Mattie wanted to help.

 

He’d been intrigued less by her face and form, despite their charms, than by her firm, quiet voice, by the thread of another island, that of her birth, that would sometimes emerge, weaving through her words despite her best efforts, and haunting him long after she spoke. He liked her very much and considered her as much a friend as a woman could be to a man (how funny, that he already thought himself a man then, when he knew so little of anything). He thought her lovely and funny and _kind_ –

 

But even then he knew that whatever he felt for her was a pale, colorless thing compared to what Francis provoked in him, to what roiled in his heart. He knew he would be taking advantage of her friendship, her kindness, the affection he did not quite return, and his fledgling honor was just enough to overcome anything else he felt. He rebuffed her in the same breath that he confessed he planned to leave to join the war effort, because she was his friend.

 

She’d not been able to forgive him for any of it.

 

Although the Mannings would have been appalled if he’d seduced their daughter, they were noticeably unhappy when the break became apparent, and her siblings little better. (Nearly _seven years_ later, Sarah Vaughan clearly resents him for it.) Only Mr. Vaughan – only for Father’s sake, he assumed – had made a point of bidding him _adieu_ before he set sail.

 

Then Alexander burst into his life, and he knew even more certainly that the kinder thing had been to distance himself. And yet –

 

Angelica.

 

He tells himself Angelica was different; Angelica _is_ different. Angelica had the measure of him – or at least of his poorly concealed feelings – from the start, before it had so much as occurred to him to . . .

 

Forget himself, to touch her face, and cover her mouth with his own. She could have said no.

 

(He could have said no when she led him to her bed.)

 

Her mind was as worldly as her body was innocent, knowing in a way Mattie could never have been. Perhaps he should be less surprised as more of that quick mind is revealed to him each day.

\---

 

In sharp contrast to her older sister, who has softened in body and sharpened in tongue beneath her sugary manner, Mattie is so much the same it surprises him.

 

He is master of himself enough to remember his manners, and the smile with which he greets her is as sincere as can reasonably be expected. “Miss Manning,” he says warmly, pressing a quick, dry kiss to the back of her hand.

 

She could be the same girl he bid _adieu_ in ’76 but for the new faint huskiness to her voice when she greets him, half-wonderingly. “Colonel Laurens. I must bid you very belated congratulations on achieving all the martial glory you dreamed of.”

 

 _Not quite all, nor was it so very glorious –_ “Thank you.”

 

As the night goes on, he wishes he could not see the old longing in her eyes that emerges when she is not preoccupied chatting, charmingly enough, with other guests. He expects sharp-eyed Mrs. Vaughan will have seen it, too, and will scold her for it after they take their leave. But Mattie was never in the habit of letting her sisters lord over her; hopefully that has not changed either.

 

\---

 

Lizzie is – fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on one’s perspective – asleep in the other room by the time the last of their guests depart and his sisters have gone off to bed, which leaves him alone to Angelica’s wrath.

“You might have told me,” she hisses.

 

He won’t have a moment’s peace, will he? “I –”

 

“So I didn’t make a fool of myself trying to befriend a woman who hates me on principle. I can’t blame her, of course – I would hate any woman my sister’s suitor married if he’d broken my sister’s –”

 

“It was hardly as dramatic as all that,” he interrupts, feeling his face color.

 

“It certainly _seems_ as dramatic as all that.”

 

“First of all, I was never her suitor. She had feelings for me, and wished I’d return them, and so did her family, but I only cared for her as a friend.”

 

It’s half the truth; he had considered Mattie a friend, and hadn’t returned her feelings, but Mattie . . . Mattie also made him realize he wasn’t – as he’d feared after preferring Mr. Kinloch to Miss, and to pretty Alicia Hopton – entirely lost to women. No love, but some affection, and lust enough to assure him he was not lacking in some fundamental way, that he was no less a man.

 

“That is all,” he insists.

 

“The gentleman doth protest too much, methinks,” Angelica says mockingly as she settles the covers around herself. She is right and, what is worse, she knows it.

 

\---

He blinks awake early the following morning, and attempts to pry Lizzie’s tiny fingers from his nightshirt – when did she join them? – so he can ease into a sitting position and rise without waking Angelica. He has so much work to do.

 

But then Lizzie sleepily mumbles, “Da no go.”

 

His chest feels tight, as though his heart is suddenly too big for it, and he decides the work waiting for him on his desk can surely wait a little longer. He silently counts his daughter’s breaths in slumber until he himself is again transported to the land of Nod.

\---

That night, he walks into the nursery with a sketchpad and the long-delayed Nuremberg crayons to find Angelica has beat him to the rocking chair, where she is quite absorbed in reading aloud from – he takes a quick look at the pamphlet cover before she notices his presence – Montesquieu’s _Spirit of the Laws_.

 

No, she is very deliberately not noticing his presence.

 

“ _There is no greater tyranny than that which is perpetrated under the shield of the law and in the name of_ –”

 

“Angelica?”

 

“Oh.” She looks up. “Yes?” She is not so good an actress as she thinks.

 

“I give you my word that I will be sure not to let you be blindsided again.” Not an apology, but if he knows his wife half as well as he thinks he has begun to, more important to her than one.

 

“You had better” is her only reply, but the distinct lack of an edge to her tone tells him it was the right thing to say.

 

When she clears her throat and continues to read, he realizes his drawing must needs wait another night.

\---

It’s a neat trick of Franklin’s, and charms even the most resolute of women. Dr. Franklin, of course, would be appalled to see him use such tactics on his own wife; the elder statesman has developed decidedly continental sensibilities and fidelity, or anything approaching it, has been deemed a foolish notion in this nation.

 

But his wife, he thinks with sudden warmth, deserves to be charmed. A small new touch to enliven the thousandth party they’ve attended, yet another at which she’s managed to dazzle the room, from the king’s brother to Adrienne’s fast friends to his own colleagues, to burn so brightly at his side that he shines in her reflected light.

Her answering smile, when he lifts his lips from the thin skin of her inner wrist, is suitably coquettish. “Do you mean to be a gallant, sir?”

 

“If I did, would I succeed?” he asks in an undertone.

 

“Perhaps, if you go on as you’ve begun,” she decides, very low. “Though you shall be no match for Dr. Franklin. Go on, laugh, I see it in your eyes,” she goads. She is leaning so close against him he can practically feel her words. “I will permit you to be the charmer of the pair of us, husband, only because I remain the amusing one,” she continues with exaggerated indulgence.

 

“ _Madame la comedienne_ ,” he murmurs in agreement as they settle into position for the next set.

 

\---

 

They return rather late from the party and change for sleep; nevertheless, he retires briefly to his study and makes a valiant attempt at resuming his correspondence that cannot but fail, given the lateness of the hour and the libations he indulged in.

 

When he concedes defeat and makes his way to the bedroom, he finds Angelica sitting at the dressing table facing toward him, wineglass dangling loosely from her fingertips, watching as he sits down on the bed.

 

“I wanted to ask you something.” There’s a slight flush to her cheeks.

 

“You can ask me anything you like,” he says automatically. He cannot promise he’ll answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Peggy really did elope with Stephen van Rensselaer III. 
> 
> \- I saw Martha Laurens Ramsay referred to as Patsy in some sources and Patty elsewhere, and chose the latter because there would be a Patsy or two referred to elsewhere, but then saw Martha Manning referred to as Patty after I’d already begun to use Patty for MLR, so I went with a different nickname to avoid (too much) confusion.
> 
> \- The quotes are cleaned-up quotes from a letter Francis Kinloch wrote to John and an earlier one John wrote to Kinloch. 
> 
> \- Regarding the Laurens/Manning relationship, because I may get some flak (and, really, this whole story): acknowledging for the record that it is very possible the historical Laurens was gay, rather than bisexual(-ish). You might say I'm portraying him here (musical!Laurens, as much as this story mixes in history) as (over-simply) a 3-4 on the Kinsey scale, perhaps more likely to fall for men, but “not entirely lost to women” (as he puts it). Not meant to be totally clear-cut, though, since sexual and romantic attraction may not be. (I'm not sure I'm explaining this well, so feel free to ignore it.)
> 
> \- I’ve taken pretty extensive liberties in terms of the personalities of Martha Manning and Sarah Manning Vaughan, because I don’t really know what they were like.
> 
> \- Finally, mostly just for your knowledge, in this universe, John returns home to America to join up in the revolution several months earlier than he does historically, because he’s not waiting around to see if he needs to marry Martha after all.


	13. Part 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has never been party to a more uncomfortable conversation in his life, but he knows better than to shut it down now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Happy belated birthday, Angelica! Happy Renee Appreciation Week, all! 
> 
> \- This chapter was . . . difficult. I have called it one of the "Moby Dick" chapters of this story. (Thanks to ossapher for listening on that!) I hope it isn't awful.
> 
> \- Thanks to everyone reading! Feedback on this (and the story as a whole) always appreciated, and thanks to anyone who has ever left a comment or kudos. (Hope some of you who started reading at Part 1 are still out there, even if you haven't commented in a while - miss you!) 
> 
> \- Definitely hit me up on tumblr - there I'm your3fundamentaltruths
> 
> \- Warning for some period-typical/internalized homophobia.

“Certain ladies of my acquaintance have been very enlightening about . . . certain things,” Angelica begins slowly. “I’d deduced some of it on my own, already, but their gossip was . . . interesting.”

 

“What gossip?” he prods. It is rather late, and he has a morning meeting with Franklin. How the man can socialize all night and still be up and ready for business at an early hour –

 

“About the . . . proclivities of men and women. Mrs. Cosway, for instance . . . enjoys the company of women.”

 

He’s heard it; Lafayette found it an especially titillating piece of gossip. He finds himself smirking. “Don’t you all?”

 

“Don’t tease,” Angelica replies, suddenly sharp. “That’s not what I mean. I mean that she –”

 

“Did she proposition you?”

 

“Of course not,” she says quickly.

 

“All right then,” he says, overly patiently, when nothing else follows. “What about her?”

 

Angelica bites her lip. French court is full of libertines, ladies of questionable repute, and general licentiousness and can quickly give anyone an education about what precisely can go on between two – or more – people, in all its varieties. And yet, while her months here have given clever Angelica a very continental  _éclat_ , it seems she is not yet  _so_  sophisticated that she can speak of such things entirely unblushingly.  “Mrs. Cosway is merely . . . an example,” Angelica finally manages. “An example of . . . the preferences of men and women.”

 

“And you wish to discuss those . . . preferences?”

 

“I wish to discuss  _your_ preferences,” she corrects.

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

Though he hoped he misheard her, she repeats exactly what he thought he heard, face flushing.

 

Now he understands why there’s a bottle and another glass on the dressing table, why one glass would not have sufficed. He rises, gestures toward the wine. “Will you share?” he asks when he finally finds his voice.

 

She pours generously into the other and offers it to him, their fingers brushing in the hand-off.

 

He sits down again and takes a rather large swallow, feeling his face warm as though there is a fire lit. “What about my . . . preferences?”

 

She gulps down the remainder of her own glass in an uncharacteristically unladylike way, sets it down, and rises to sit down beside him on the bed before continuing. “You . . . obviously care for Alexander –”

 

He has never explicitly owned his feelings to her, but he has never denied them either. She is, he now knows with certainty, too intelligent for him to insult her that way.

 

“And he cares for you as you care for him. I don’t understand it, because it’s obvious he truly does love Eliza –”

 

Somehow that doesn’t make him flinch anymore.

 

“But I could see it from how he reacted when we heard you were injured in South Carolina, and in his letters. He writes to you in the same . . .  _esprit_ he writes to me.”

 

She doesn’t seem to realize there is anything especially unusual in what she’s just said. But it is the first time she has said anything to suggest she believes her own feelings for Alexander reciprocated in any fashion, and he remembers then the way Alexander spoke of her upon his return to the army, the glint in his eyes, the half-smitten description of how she fared –

 

“And well –” She flushes a bit more. “You must know by now that I do not like to be ignorant or ill-informed, and I think it only fair you clarify matters for me, seeing as you are my husband,” she says, as if it’s that simple.

 

It’s not.

 

“Am I wrong?”

 

On the other hand, he has yet to truly lie to her, and she won’t tell anyone. They’re married; his interests are hers, because his ruin would be hers. Their daughter’s. And all she’s expressed is curiosity. Curiosity, he tells himself. He shakes his head.

 

“Did the . . . affection between the two of you ever . . . move into the physical realm?”

 

(. . . _In drawing my picture, you will no doubt be civil to your friend; mind you do justice to the length of my nose and don’t forget that I never spared you of pictures . . ._ )

 

How in God’s name can she expect him to answer such a query? It’s the sort of thing one might  _hang_ for. After all, most men cannot expect the indulgence tacitly afforded the Baron, whose ways had been an open secret in the army. If he had his way now, he would never say a word, and he did not promise he would answer.

 

“That is to say –”

 

“Angelica,” he interrupts, and prays for patience. “Why do you care about what may have happened in the past?”

 

And it is, very much, the past.

 

Their affection might have crossed that faint boundary between what was proper between comrades-in-arms and what was not, their habits might have been irregular, aberrant, but he would never have led Alexander so far astray as to make him an adulterer. Even if it pained him to admit it, Alexander loves his wife deeply, and he would have regretted it after. They were each other’s greatest sin, but he didn’t ever want to be Alexander’s  _regret_ , though Alexander had been the instigator at the start –

 

 _(_ _. . . You will be pleased to recollect in your negotiations that I have no invincible antipathy to the_ maidenly beauties _ & that I am willing to take the _trouble _of them upon myself . . ._ _)_

 

Had told him again and again that there could be no sin in snatching some happiness amidst the death and destruction surrounding them, has always been more expressive and eloquent than he.

 

And he – he had to keep some small part of his own honor.

 

Despite all that, Alexander’s letters remain as affectionate as ever – though appropriate and lacking the bawdy teasing of old, they are a fulfillment of the promise to keep one part for the public and another for him.

 

“Because I care about the future.” It has taken her rather a long time to come up with so evasive an answer.

 

“Could you . . . clarify for me how past . . . expressions of affection would have any bearing upon the future?”

 

“It is my understanding that . . . while most men prefer women and most women prefer men, some men prefer other men and women other women, and others like women and men equally –”

 

Despite himself, his attractions to women have been far and few between. He’d found Angelica compelling enough to lose himself in her the night of Alexander’s wedding; there had been Mattie, of course, and –

 

But there was Kinloch as well, and of course his most passionate attachment was – remains, he thinks, despite himself – to Alexander. He’d been relieved and pained in equal measure to hear Alexander would be married when his friend first wrote of it, hoping it would free them both from the strange hold they had over one another, and yet –

 

 _(_ _In spite of Schuyler’s black eyes, I have still a part for the public and another for you, so your impatience to have me married is misplaced; a strange cure by the way, as if after matrimony I was to be less devoted than I am now . . ._ _)_

 

“I think it is quite safe to assume you do not prefer women exclusively,” she continues quickly. “But I would like to know where exactly you fall, because it’s clear that a liking for other men doesn’t stop a man from fathering children and marrying, but –” She takes a breath. “The only time we . . . were together, we both had more than enough to drink and wanted to forget ourselves, forget the night. And now, though I’ve been here for months, you’ve never touched me again. Is it because you don’t wish to?”

 

He has never been party to a more uncomfortable conversation in his life, but he knows better than to shut it down now.

 

 _I_   _will not speak to you of such things. Cease asking such –_

 

_. . . If you allow yourself to keep slaves until the law forbids it, despite the utter inconsistency with your professed beliefs, you can hardly be in any hurry to hasten that happy day. Or was your plan for black battalions only a convenient solution to wartime necessity cloaked in higher-minded rhe –_

_Enough._

 

And the truth is . . .

 

He’d managed to exercise enough self-control with Mattie, but then the recklessness of war – and then he was married. His father, a devout man who was a devoted husband for as long as Mother had breath in her body, despises adultery. Even more importantly, he has too much of a care for his reputation at home. He does not have the years and reputation of a Franklin to help him weather scandal arising from personal excesses.

 

Though he knows he has every right to her, they fell into a strange stalemate upon her arrival and he has never forced the issue (what fresh hells would await a man that tried forcing anything upon Angelica!), but now Angelica has and –

 

He cannot get a word in edgewise before she begins again. “You needn’t worry about offending me. I know I’m not unattractive; others have made that clear. It’s only that I would like to . . . be wanted, and if that’s not something I can have from you, I want to know that.”

 

_I know I’m not unattractive; others have made that clear._

 

“And do what with that knowledge?” he asks, instantly suspicious.

 

She frowns, but remains silent.

 

He drains his glass and rises again to pour a second, but thinks better of it and sets it down on the dressing table before seating himself on the bed again. “Well?” he demands.

 

“I could take a lover –”

 

She cannot be serious. “No, you can’t.”

 

“I don’t mean  _just_ I could, of course,” she assures him. “We both could.”

 

“No, we can _not_.”

 

“I wouldn’t mind –”

 

“ _I_ mind,” he interrupts.

 

“Because I didn’t have a boy?”

 

Oh, for God’s sake – “Because you’re my wife, you foolish woman, and –”

 

Angelica leans closer, glaring at him. “Don’t call me foolish –”

 

He cuts her off with a kiss. She may kiss him back, or she may kill him, but ending the most uncomfortable conversation of his life may well be worth his demise.

 

\---

“Now I’m beginning to understand what everyone’s always giggling about,” Angelica says, much later, when he can barely open his eyes.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“That was a decided improvement over the last time.”

 

The comment would prick his pride, except it isn’t terribly surprising. The last time was her first time and rushed, because of course they couldn’t be seen, but now time was no object; he wouldn’t be surprised to see the first light of dawn beginning to filter in through the curtains. “The first time is never very good. That’s what the subsequent times are for.”

 

“Times, hmm?” His eyes are closed, but he suspects she is smirking.

 

\---

He wakes up to a small hand smacking his cheek rather relentlessly, if not especially painfully.  He has no idea how many hours have passed since he closed his eyes; he hasn’t slept as soundly in an age.

 

“Da-ddy, Da- _ddy_ ,” Lizzie chants insistently.

 

“I made the mistake of letting her see you were still abed, and she insisted on having her nap with you,” Angelica says, looking impossibly well-rested and put-together. It’s really quite unfair.

 

“Her nap?” he asks groggily. “Then – What time is it?” He sits up, surprising Lizzie. “Franklin –”

 

“I took the liberty of postponing your meeting so that he might join us for supper tonight.”

 

“That will please him. He likes you very much –” Perhaps too much. Franklin likes most women too much, let alone those who have both looks and wit to recommend them. “Thank you.”

 

She gives him a small smile. “It was no trouble.”

\---

There is a letter from his father waiting in his office when he finally begins his day. Father writes of his certainty that he will be unable to come to Paris before the treaty is signed.

 

He sighs at the news, but he has matters in hand, and the assistance of a rather helpful helpmeet, who eases his days – and will, perhaps, continue to gladden his nights.

As his sisters have remained with them longer than expected, Angelica suggests he entrust his continuing impressions of the treaty negotiations to Church, who will pass near enough Uncle James’s estate on his way through the countryside for a brief sojourn, though he is beginning to think his father’s insights no longer quite so vital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The sections from a letter John remembers receiving from Alexander are from a real letter he received from Alexander - specifically, the infamous “cold in my professions, warm in my friendships”/WTF you’re married with a wife and kid/get me a wife/five censored words letter. (Credit for the choice of five censored words to use here obviously goes to ciceroprofacto.) This universe’s version of the “cold in my professions” letter doesn’t refer to a wife and daughter, of course, because John had neither of those at that point in time. Instead, Ham got worked up over somebody saying that Laurens would surely come back married to some rich, pretty Carolina belle.
> 
> \- Also, I try, but Lizzie is so spoiled, y’all. I didn’t even mean for that scene to happen.


	14. Part 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Have you another engagement?” he asks with some surprise as Franklin slowly rises to his feet to take his leave. In his experience, the older man has not always been so succinct. Of course, in this case, he was the one who had much more to say than was necessary in the end.
> 
> “I do not, but I daresay you do.”
> 
> “I beg your pardon?”
> 
> “With your wife, waiting upstairs . . . suffice to say, I am the last man who would keep you from enjoying company so fair for a moment longer than necessary.” Franklin actually winks at him. “I can see myself out.”

“Will you discuss the importation clause tonight?” Angelica asks as they await Franklin’s arrival, after Patty and Polly have headed off to their own dinner engagement. “Time’s running out.”

 

“Yes.” He means to revive Jay’s draft provision to prohibit British ships from bringing slaves to America. Unfortunately, the strong language about the states’ intention to prohibit importation of slaves entirely in due time cannot stand if he means to get the substantive portion of the provision into the final terms, and that will have the greater impact in the immediate future.  _Action over philosophy._

 

She smiles.

 

\---

“My very dear lady,” Franklin addresses Angelica first as he is led in. “I am delighted as ever to see you.”

                   

Angelica smiles, wide and welcoming, and when he follows Franklin’s gaze, he notes her dress is lower-cut than is her wont; she knows her audience well. “I am equally delighted to have you join us, dear doctor.”

Franklin then turns to him. “My boy, you look much better than I expected to find you,” he says jovially. “I was told you were laid quite low with a headache this morning.” Franklin has always treated him as something of a favored nephew, called him  _my boy_  as though he were still a lad –

 

_. . . I would not attempt persuading you to quit the military line, my boy, because I think you have the qualities of mind and body that promise your doing great service and acquiring honor in that line. Otherwise I should be happy to see you again here as my successor, having some time since written to Congress requesting to be relieved and, believing as I firmly do, that they could not put their affairs in better hands . . ._

 

This even though he knows there have been times Franklin happily would have strangled him for his indelicacy in breaking diplomatic norms, even though he has always shrunk back from the intimacy such address implies. Although he’s always cherished Washington’s affection, relished being called “son” by a man who showed warmth to so few others, he has found himself for the first time sympathizing with Alexander’s uneasiness in his relationship with His Excellency after these diplomatic missions with Dr. Franklin. He knows even he, with his own connections, cannot afford to offend the good doctor, and he does respect and admire him, yet – “A good rest put me to rights. I thank you for your understanding, sir.”

 

Franklin nods. “And how fares my young friend?”

 

“Well, but I’m afraid she’s quite soundly asleep,” Angelica replies. “Otherwise, she surely would have greeted you; you know she is quite fond of you.”

 

“Not nearly so fond as I of her,” Franklin insists.

 

Angelica laughs. “I will try not to be too jealous of your affections.”

 

“Oh, now don’t say _that_. I shall feel myself very ill-used, my dear.”

 

“Would you prefer me to try to win them away?”

 

“Naturally.”

 

“Then I will start with a bountiful table –”

 

“Of which I am sure I will enjoy every morsel –”

 

“Over which I will entertain you with my prodigious wit –”

 

“Which is matched only by your beauty,” Franklin finishes. “Lead the way.”

 

\---

“I hope you have a productive discussion,” Angelica says as she takes her leave, reluctantly, after supper.

 

“I certainly hope so,” Franklin replies warmly. “Thank you again, my dear.”

 

Angelica turns back a moment. “Forgive me if I overstep, sir, but while I daresay you need not worry how history will remember you, I feel obliged to tell you that you will only burnish your legacy by taking a step to curtail the slave trade –”

 

“We are all of us –” he, Franklin, Jay, Adams – “in agreement as to the evils of the larger institution, sir,” he cuts in. He knows she means well, but he does not need her to fight this battle. She has already done her part to make Franklin amenable. The rest is up to him. “And curtailing the trade will hasten its decline and ultimately the end of the trade will help wear away its foundations.”

 

Angelica nods thoughtfully before she goes, a movement mimicked by Franklin as he watches her leave.

 

\---

 

In the end, his discussion with Franklin is brief and marvelously efficient.

 

“Have you another engagement?” he asks with some surprise as Franklin slowly rises to his feet to take his leave. In his experience, the older man has not always been so succinct. Of course, in this case, he was the one who had much more to say than was necessary in the end.

 

“I do not, but I daresay you do.”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“With your wife, waiting upstairs . . . suffice to say, I am the last man who would keep you from enjoying company so fair for a moment longer than necessary.” Franklin actually  _winks_  at him. “I can see myself out.”

\---

With Franklin departed, he heads upstairs and finds Angelica already in bed, for once reading something other than a political treatise.  _Les liaisons dangereuses_  had been the talk of Paris when he arrived, and he’s frankly surprised she hasn’t read it already, though he himself has not.

 

Angelica looks up from the book as he’s shrugging off his coat and stepping out of his shoes. “I didn’t expect you’d be done so quickly.”

 

“Franklin agreed rather quickly –”

 

She smiles. “Well done.” 

 

He shrugs. “He didn't need much convincing. And he was in something of a hurry to depart.”

 

“Why?”

 

They resorted to liquid courage the night before, but he’s a man, is he not? “He said he was the last man to keep me from enjoying company so fair.”

 

Angelica tilts her head quizzically.

 

Perhaps tonight – “I would hate to disappoint him,” he adds before he can make a cowardly retreat.

 

“We certainly ought not.” She places her novel on the nightstand, rises, and comes to stand before him, not quite looking at him before methodically beginning to unbutton his waistcoat.

 

He could do it himself, and if he could not, he would call for Berry’s assistance, of course, but he does not mind the change.

 

When she is done, she looks up and holds his gaze a long moment until he kisses her again. It is a slow, careful thing this time, as unhurried as the last was fast and frenzied.

 

\---

“You’ll never believe what Sarah told me,” Angelica says when she returns from tea with Mrs. Jay, eyes sparkling with mischief.

 

“What’s happened?” he asks, instantly interested. Things have been slow lately, with half of Paris fled to the countryside due to the heat. Perhaps he ought to have taken his opinions to his father himself rather than entrusting them to Church. Lizzie would like his uncle’s estate. But he cannot pretend he’s not enjoying his newfound free time.

 

“Mrs. Vaughan is nearly distracted, because her sister has eloped –”

 

Mattie had always been more daring than she let on, but an elopement is rather outside the scope of what he’d imagined from her. Still, unless the man is totally unsuitable, which he hopes is not the case, perhaps Mrs. Vaughan ought to be pleased. For all that Mattie remains quite pretty, she might have been called a spinster at her age and now she is free of that fate.

 

“With –” Angelica laughs. Chortles, really. “With Church,” she crows, shaking her head in disbelief.

 

Angelica’s former suitor, of all people. “Do you think he had a chance to deliver my letter first?” he asks innocently, as if this weren’t the oddest turn of events.

 

At that, Angelica can no longer speak for laughing.

 

Marie raises an eyebrow at the lady of the house, obviously thinking she has lost her wits, and the skepticism on the maid’s usually impassive face breaks his composure so thoroughly that he is helpless against his own bout of laughter.  

\---

Considering the fact that Mrs. Vaughan is said to fully blame them for her sister’s rash actions, because it was Angelica who made an initial introduction ( _she’s probably just jealous that her younger sister is now a rich man’s wife; she does seem the sort_ ), it is unsurprising that the Vaughans do not accept an invitation to Angelica’s latest and, to date, most successful garden party, even after enough time has passed to allow Mrs. Vaughan's temper to cool. It coincides with the newlyweds’ return to Paris, who accept their invitation happily.

 

“I wish you every happiness, Mrs. Church,” he tells Mattie in the garden, tipping his glass of champagne in her direction to echo his words after clapping Church, who assures him he did make sure to deliver his letter, on the back with similar sentiments. “He’s a lucky man.”

 

“Thank you,” she replies, with more sincerity than he thinks his good wishes merit. She looks so much the same, and yet all is changed in the glow of joy, and he is glad of it.

 

After excusing himself with a friendly nod when Church returns with a drink for his wife, he enters the house to get a brief respite from the sun ( _you'll freckle even more_ ,  _darling_ , Mother used to sigh when he wanted to help her tend her garden as a boy, but she always gave in) only to happen upon an unusual scene.

 

Face like thunder, Angelica looms over Georges (when did he get inside?), their sobbing daughter in Polly’s arms, as Franklin (when did he come inside, he'd been flirting with Mrs. Cosway a minute ago, hadn't he?) intones over-solemnly to the boy, “Young man, when _Mademoiselle_ grows into a beauty like her aunt –” with a look at Polly, and  _really_ , must Franklin flirt with _everyone_  – “you will regret your behavior.”

 

It is obvious by his stoic, stubborn silence that Georges is entirely unmoved by Angelica’s glare, Lizzie’s tears, or Franklin’s lecture.

 

But further discussion is cut off by the entrance from stage left of the nanny, Georges’s sisters on each side of her and little Maria Jay in her arms, to put things to rights. The nanny’s sharp eyes take in her charge’s tear-streaked face and she murmurs an abject apology to Angelica before dragging away the wayward architect of the scene, leaving Lizzie to be consoled and petted by her protective aunt.

 

“That won’t happen again,” Angelica vows, steely-eyed, once they are gone.

 

“What did happen?” he asks.

 

Polly answers indignantly, “He knocked her down.”

 

He’s less than thrilled his daughter is in tears, of course, but they’re only children . . . He turns to Angelica. “Do you intend to watch day and –”

 

“Next time, she’ll hit first.”

 

“Angelica.”

 

She looks entirely unrepentant, and Polly looks delighted.

 

He shakes his head, realizing that there is no undoing the emboldening influence his wife is already exerting over his youngest sister. But perhaps it isn’t the worst thing in the world, and he rather likes the notion of his daughter striking back if someone tries to harm her, although he’d prefer to take care of the culprit himself.

 

\---

 

“You’ve made an excellent impression!” Angelica announces grandly when they arrive home after the ball celebrating the signing of the peace treaty.

 

With the exception of a few pet clauses, including the clause on importation, the final treaty does not differ radically from the provisional terms, although there remain other agreements to work out independently.  

 

She laughs, an uncharacteristically girlish thing, giggly with champagne. “I lost track of how many people came up to me to tell me just how much they esteem you.  _Almost_  lost track,” she corrects herself. “I’ll write it down. In the morning,” she says in an undertone. “I wouldn’t be surprised at all if you’re asked to replace Franklin when he goes home.”

 

“Not replace. Succeed. No man can replace him,” he says very seriously.

 

“Oh, you’ll have to say that when you’re asked about it. Exactly that. You’ll sound modest, a master class in sober civic virtue.” She gives him an eloquent look from beneath her lashes. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

 

He’s no fool. “I did,” he admits lowly. He’d written such things to Franklin during the war, after his first appointment as envoy extraordinary, genuinely uninterested in diplomacy, but not lacking the foresight to know he ought to leave himself all options open.

 

_. . . I take this opportunity of returning to Your Excellency my best thanks for the indulgent expressions in the letter which you did me the honor to write prior to my departure from Paris. I repeat to Your Excellency that it was only a principle of obedience that brought me to Europe on the present occasion, that I have not the most remote inclination to engage in the diplomatic line, and if I had the greatest, I should feel too strongly the disadvantage of succeeding Your Excellency ever to form a desire on the subject—unless you would cast your mantle upon me and give me at the same time abilities to succeed to your reputation . . ._

 

Her lips curve into an appreciative smile and he lets his eyes linger over her mouth. It is becoming a familiar dance.

 

She takes the hint.

\---

 

Of course, Angelica is right.

 

But he’s so satisfied with his success that he doesn’t even mind when she says  _I told you so_.

 

And she sounds more proud than self-satisfied when she says it, so that he even enjoys it a little, but he prefers the conspiratorial smile she gives him whenever someone nods approvingly at the remark about Franklin and quickly assures him of his own virtues.

 

As ever, he appreciates the way she subtly extricates him from tiresome conversations, maneuvers him toward the people he still needs to impress, and charms them so thoroughly he has only to say something halfway intelligent to make them his ardent admirers.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- John Jay really did write the draft provision discussed in this chapter. 
> 
> \- Forgive me if my Ben Franklin characterization is off. I tried. 
> 
> \- The section from a letter John remembers receiving from Franklin is from a real letter he received from Franklin (with a small addition).
> 
> \- Franklin referred to Maria Jay – John Jay’s daughter – as his “young friend” in a letter, which I borrowed here.
> 
> \- Not going to lie, Franklin's reaction in the bit where Angelica leaves the men to talk is inspired by the line "I hate to see you go but I love to watch you leave."
> 
> \- The section from a letter John remembers writing to Franklin is from a real letter he wrote Franklin.
> 
> \- Thank you to everyone reading and especially leaving kudos and comments! 
> 
> \- Follow/talk to me on tumblr! I'm your3fundamentaltruths
> 
> \- EDIT: Creating a collection of AU scenes/deleted scenes/drabbles for this universe here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10539027/chapters/23270538


	15. Interlude 5 (someone at your level)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wants to be wanted, to know what it is to want and be satisfied, but that is not all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from Satisfied.

In the brief time between the arrival of the Vaughan party shortly after the Jays and Dr. Franklin and the arrivals of Mr. Adams and John Church, she is able to determine why Patty was so uncomfortable at the mere mention of Mrs. Vaughan’s sister.

 

Uncomfortable that Miss Manning was mentioned to Angelica, with whose husband Miss Manning is clearly smitten. She sees the way Miss Manning looks at John when she thinks no one’s looking, but it doesn’t bother her. If anything, she sympathizes. She knows too well what it is to want someone you cannot have.

 

“They were something like sweethearts, before the war,” Mrs. Vaughan confides in a sugary tone. “But we all knew she would lose him to it. Though Mattie would not hear it, it was apparent that even as a very young man, Jack –” over-familiar, too – “Loved America more than any woman.”

 

“I do feel myself overshadowed by country more often than not,” she jests to hide her annoyance at Mrs. Vaughan’s attempts to needle her. She would never be jealous, but it’s tasteless of Mrs. Vaughan to try and provoke such a reaction. “America is a most demanding mistress.”

 

\---

 

“Miss Manning seems as though she could do with a compliment or three to loosen her,” Church mutters at one point later in the evening. “And she would not be undeserving of them,” he adds mischievously.

 

Miss Manning is pretty enough, she supposes. Nevertheless, she says, “don’t bother,” knowing him too well. Miss Manning seems far too quiet for his taste. “It seems she was my husband’s sweetheart and remains rather taken with him, so the sisters dislike me on principle.”

 

Church pouts at her, only a moment, before his confident grin returns. “Well, he won my sweetheart; perhaps I might now win his?”

 

She shakes her head at him, but makes no further attempt to dissuade him. She expects he has convinced himself he is doing her some sort of favor, enlivening her pouty guest. She will only nudge him toward a truly eligible lady after his inevitable disappointment. He is a good man, and he deserves to be happy. “Miss Manning,” she says more loudly, just this side of too-sweetly, Church at her side as they approach the younger woman, “may I introduce my dear friend Mr. Church?”

\---

“If Lizzie weren’t so perfectly adorable, I would say it was a shame she takes so much after us, since her mother is very beautiful,” Patty says thoughtfully over supper one day. “I suppose you’ll have to hope the next one looks more like you than Jack, Angelica.”

 

John nearly chokes on his wine, requiring a very hard whack on the back that saves her from having to respond, seeing as his continued survival is a prerequisite to the possibility of a  _next one_. As is their doing more than sleep in their marital bed. But they get on well enough now and by the time she completed mourning, found a second man to suit, and remarried, she might not be very keen to have another child. 

\---

Of all things, it is her sister-in-law’s innocent comment – truly an innocent comment, for Patty, though equally if not more intelligent, is more plain-spoken and sincere than her sly younger sister – that spurs her to act upon the resolution she made after speaking with Adrienne.

 

She wants to be wanted, to know what it is to _want_ and be satisfied, but that is not all.

 

She always knew she had to marry (well, of course) and have children but, unlike her sisters, she didn’t anticipate marriage and motherhood particularly eagerly. As the middle sister, Eliza had both someone to care for her and someone to care for, and relished both. Peggy has always been doted on and lorded over, and wanted to be the one doing the doting and the lording for a change. She, on the other hand, has had two people who for her came before herself for as long as she can remember, and that’s without taking into account her obligations to their father and the family name as the eldest daughter of the house. Marriage and motherhood just sounded like more of the same, with the danger that her husband would be less indulgent of her intellectual pursuits than her father.

 

She’s discovered, however, that she has a greater capacity to love, to protect, than she knew. Now, knowing how much she loves Lizzie, she realizes she would like another child, is surprised to realize just how much. Even more than for her own sake, she wants it for Lizzie’s; she has always appreciated being so close in age to her sisters, having the privilege to count them both family and dearest friends, and she wants the same for her daughter.

 

Despite her determination, it takes two and one-quarter glasses of wine in addition to what she’s already drunk at the party that night (where John . . . flirted with her; that had been flirting, hadn’t it?) for her to feel sufficiently equipped to confront her husband with her questions, which he neatly, infuriatingly, sidesteps and quickly turns on her and, oh, how that annoys her. She knows she would despise him if he were stupid, but she is used to being the smartest in the room and it unnerves her to be outmaneuvered.

 

“It is my understanding that . . . while most men prefer women and most women prefer men, some men prefer other men and women other women, and others like women and men equally. I think it is quite safe to assume you do not prefer women exclusively,” she continues quickly. “But I would like to know where exactly you fall, because it’s clear that a liking for other men doesn’t stop a man from fathering children and marrying, but –” She takes a breath, willing herself to remain composed. “The only time we . . . were together, we both had more than enough to drink and wanted to forget ourselves, forget the night. And now, though I’ve been here for months, you’ve never touched me again. Is it because you don’t wish to?”

 

John, humiliatingly, says nothing.

 

She barrels on, “You needn’t worry about offending me. I know I’m not unattractive; others have made that clear.” She’s never been especially modest, and it’s true. “It’s only that I would like to . . . be wanted, and if that’s not something I can have from you, I want to know that.”

 

“And do what with that knowledge?” he asks suspiciously.

 

She frowns, thinking. She hadn’t expected – no, had hoped he wouldn’t – question her. No, she had hoped he would tell her she  _could_ have that from him. And if he told her she could not, at the very least she would have escaped her cage of uncertainty once and for all. Would know that she could not even hope for his lust, that even that is reserved for – 

 

He drains his glass, rises to set it down on the dressing table, and seats himself on the bed again. “Well?” he demands.

 

She has to say something, and she might as well be honest, no? “I could take a lover –”

 

His retort is instantaneous. “No, you can’t.”

 

“I don’t mean  _just_ I could, of course,” she assures him. “We both could.” That is better than an eternally cold bed.

 

“No, we can _not_.”

 

“I wouldn’t mind –”

 

“ _I_ mind,” he interrupts.

 

“Because I didn’t have a boy?” He may not want  _her_ , but men want sons. Perhaps for that purpose he will bring himself to bed her again, and then when she does give him a son –

  

“Because you’re my wife, you foolish woman, and –”

 

She leans closer, glaring at him with all her might. “Don’t call me foolish –”

 

He cuts her off with a kiss.

 

There is a small part of her that is instantly furious he has dared to silence her like this, but the rest of her exults in the notion that, miraculously, her gamble seems to have paid off.

 

(And oh, how it pays off.)

 

\---

She hadn’t wanted to stare before, but now that she is awake again and he remains asleep, bared to the waist for the first time since they married, she can’t help herself, can’t help but examine the marks that mar his otherwise smooth skin. Most are faded now, faint memories of martial glory etched into his flesh, with one exception.

 

She’d avoided touching or even much looking at the scar that marks the spot of the near-fatal wound inflicted by a redcoat in some godforsaken rice paddy in South Carolina. She’d wanted to enjoy herself the first (second) time, didn’t want to distract him either, and so it was not the moment to dwell on how close he’d come to dying over nothing. She doesn’t touch it now either, for fear of waking him, but she can understand better than ever why he has nightmares of that dreadful day, that perhaps there is more than guilt to it.

 

All that matters, however, is that he is alive to dream of it, though thankfully he has not had nightmares in some time now.

 

\---

She returns from the Jays’ with Patty and Polly one afternoon to find neither Lizzie nor her nanny in the nursery and concludes they must be in the garden or on a stroll; it’s a lovely day and the weather nearly perfect, not so hot as it was in summer.

 

She quickly spots Lizzie outside, chasing a butterfly on chubby legs, delighted, laughing her musical little laugh, but no nanny in sight; it’s her father who watches her – a man usually so careful of his clothes, sprawled out carelessly in one of the grass patches of their garden in buff-colored breeches! He looks younger and lighter than she’s known him to since she met him, smiling with eyes and teeth.

 

Happy.

 

It looks so very well on him that she finds herself smiling also.

_\---_

_November 1783_

 

“Forgive me, ladies, but I must importune you and steal your friend away a moment,” Franklin says with a rakish grin to Maria Cosway and Martha Church, the latter of whom has rather changed her tune since her marriage, now out from under her sister’s thumb and in Church’s more liberal keeping. Franklin is older than her father, old enough to be her  _grandfather_ , and yet – rakish. It is absurd.

“In you, dear doctor, I am sure we could forgive anything,” she says flirtatiously as lets herself be led away. Franklin is a lecher, but he is an undeniably wise and well-connected lecher, and ultimately a harmless one. “First, however, I would very much appreciate a drink. A lemonade, if they have it.” The ball is stiflingly hot, what with the crush of people and the dozens of lit tapers lining the walls of the ballroom; she has not a taste for champagne in such oppressively close quarters.

 

“Now then, my dear,” Franklin begins, business-like beneath his affability once he has acquired her lemonade and a glass of champagne for himself.

 

She is nearly certain he does not know that she has read him like a book.

 

“How do you like Paris? Has the shine worn off after a half year?”

 

“Not at all, sir. I’m having an excellent time, and have a very agreeable set of acquaintance, among which number you are, of course, counted above the rest.”

 

“I am glad to hear it. You may be quite the most agreeable lady of my acquaintance.” The scent of his champagne wafts up when he leans in. “Would you wish to remain now that the treaty has been signed?”

 

“I daresay my wishes don’t much matter, sir. My husband will go where our country requires him, and I will go with him.”

 

“Ah, your husband,” Franklin says slowly, stretching the phrase, and she knows they have arrived at the subject of his jovial summons. “Does Colonel Laurens let himself be advised by you, my dear? Not on piddling things, but if you tell him something he doesn’t like – and you do strike me as the sort of woman who will never be satisfied to keep her opinions to herself – what does he do with that?”

 

She considers Franklin, wonders how honest she should be.

 

It would not suit to portray her husband as hen-pecked – and it could not be further from the truth – but from Franklin’s stance and tone, she suspects he wishes to be told she has  _some_ influence over his not-infrequently impetuous colleague, that her answer may influence Franklin’s recommendation as to his successor. She sees what John does not: Franklin may value his French friends more than he ought, but he is also dying to go home. She can certainly sympathize; she misses her family also.

 

But she’s enjoyed Paris and she wants the man to whom she’s tied herself to be an ever-rising star, not sunk into obscurity. She rises or sinks with him, and Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of Versailles, rather than being only invested with plenipotentiary powers for negotiating peace, would be a most prestigious post for any man, but especially one not yet thirty, not to mention succeeding someone as esteemed as Franklin. It would suit particularly in these uncertain times, as their country figures out what exactly it means to be in the aftermath of the Revolution, and there are not so many appealing opportunities at home, if Alexander’s dissatisfaction with Congress is representative.

 

“He is, I think you’ve gathered, very strong-willed and decisive,” she begins.

 

“Oh, is he really?” Franklin interrupts, bone-dry.

 

She slants an amused look at him and shrugs, very French, to convey her appreciation of the remark. “But he listens, and he takes what I say into consideration,” she begins, thinking of Shrewsbury. “If he thinks I am right – and generally, when I have bothered to give advice, I am right,” she says, with a faintly saucy smile that she knows will tickle the good doctor, “because I am his helpmeet, not a harpy to plague him” – now sounding the very model of a demure wife – “he will heed it.”

 

“Then young Laurens is an even smarter man than I gave him credit for,” Franklin concedes with a puckish smile.

 

She suspects the revolutionary statesmen will see John as “young Laurens” until the day his father is no more and perhaps not even then. She has to stifle a laugh at the thought of him gone gray, Lizzie grown, perhaps having given him a grandchild, and he still referred to as  _young Laurens_.

 

“I thought him mellowed some in his stances since your arrival, but I could not be sure if that was your purposeful doing or merely a secondary effect of domestic . . . bliss. Well, now I have to say it’s quite a shame you couldn’t join him for his first mission.”

 

“It really was,” she agrees. “We were very newly-wed,” she adds sweetly.

 

“Ah, then that, and not a desire to return to the battlefield was the true cause of his haste. Perhaps I shall tell our French friends that. He ruffled some feathers that time, but they will think his haste romantic in retrospect.”

 

“His haste?” she asks, concerned.

 

“He grew impatient with various delays from their ministers and brought business before the king at a  _levée_.”

 

She nearly gasps, the first crack in her effortlessly refined façade in all her months in Paris. In a place of such rigid protocol as Versailles, such behavior is akin to social suicide, could have given rise to an international in – She goes to take a sip, or several, of her lemonade, but finds it empty.

 

“Don’t look so, it’s all in the past, and the king was very gracious. Even gifted him a fine little snuffbox.” She knows the one.

 

She’s always disdained swooning women, believing their fits to be nothing more than a farce, but, oh, it is so  _hot_ in this bloody ballroom that she feels rather light –

 

“I shall have you sit if you don’t collect yourself, my dear,” Franklin insists, sounding suddenly concerned. “At the very least, I will fetch you another lemonade.” He has barely to raise his hand before a footman appears with a fresh glass. He presses it into her hand and doesn’t speak again until she’s drunk half of it, and she feels more herself. “Don’t worry yourself. If it is not entirely forgotten, I will now be able to throw a gloss of whimsy over it if it is mentioned again, transform their memory of a discourteous diplomat into that of a pining petitioner separated from his lovely new bride.”

 

“And child,” she adds impulsively, once her mind is sharp and clear again, wanting to make the story as affecting as possible, even if she usually would not want to draw anyone’s attention to Lizzie’s arrival in too-short order. If his behavior were truly so catastrophic, he would not have been handed other opportunities since – they would not be here now, surely – but better to sweep any  _faux pas_  as far out of memory as possible. “He was at Yorktown at the time of her birth, but I think it was trying for him to be separated from me by an ocean for so much of the time preceding it,” she elaborates, embellishing the lie.

 

“Of course, here he could not indulge in the comforting fantasy that he might get on his horse and ride to you at once if he wished it,” Franklin says. “Poor boy. They will like that.”

 

“But isn’t marital . . . bliss considered  _passé à Paris_ , dear doctor?”

 

“Entirely,” Franklin agrees bluntly. “But it may be tolerable in the early years, as we are Americans and thought to be foolish about fidelity, if it tickles their sense of romance.”

 

It will be three years this February, but they will have spent only . . . oh, under a year of that time together, all told.

 

“You must, however, hate the very sight of Laurens by the time you’ve given my young friend a brother, or you will be considered hopelessly old-fashioned.”

 

She feels her face heat despite herself, but she only laughs conspiratorially. “Considering what I recall of her entrance into the world, I very likely will. I cursed him so vividly and fluently – in English  _and_  French – that I nearly shocked my poor sister into an early grave.” It’s not at all an appropriate thing to say, but the good doctor is known for appreciating such earthy candor.

 

Franklin laughs, truly laughs, a great big belly laugh that draws attention from some courtiers.

 

John joins them at precisely the right moment, just as Franklin’s laughter has trailed off. Eyebrow raised, a half-smile on his lips, he says, “I must insist on hearing the joke.”

 

“You really shouldn’t,” she replies breezily. She smiles at her husband, a little sideways thing with no teeth; he’s in on the bigger joke, and he knows it. She rather likes this partnership of theirs, and she knows he does as well.

 

Franklin winks at her from out of John’s line of sight before turning serious and turning to greet him with an appraising look in his eye, and she is sure she’s succeeded in her aims for the evening.

 

“Forgive me, but I must find Adrienne,” she tells the men. When she catches John looking over Franklin’s shoulder, she gives him a freezing look and quickens her pace.

 

He mustn’t be distracted. The faster he is done, the sooner they can be off.

 

\---

 

The envelopes from New York catch her by surprise – pleasantly, of course.

 

_My dearest sister,_

_Per your hint, Betsey cries_ Atlantic _and defies anything we can say or do. She_ _consents to everything, except that I should love you and my dear Laurens_  as well as herself _and this you are both too reasonable to expect._

Ever too generous and not knowing the half of it, at least Eliza is wise enough to reserve to herself the lion’s share of her husband’s affections. She traces the lightly written words _except that I should love you._

_But I do not know how far I shall avail myself of her generosity if you do not mend your manners. You hurt my republican nerves by your intimacy with_ amiable _princes. I pray you don’t let your vanity make you forget that such folks are but men and that it is very possible that they may not be half as worthy of the good will of a fine woman as a Minister Plenipotentiary or a Congressman. I cannot endure that you should be giving such folks dinners, while I at the distance of 3000 miles can only console myself by_ thinking _of you._

_My love to the_ petite mlle, père, et mère. Adieu. _Remember us as you ought to do – remember us as we remember you._

 

_Your ever affectionate friend & brother A. Hamilton_

 

\---

 

She saves for last the letter from Eliza, the first in all her months in Paris, to savor it.

 

_My beloved Angelica,_

_I thank you for your last letters and for the trouble you have taken to procure the articles I requested you to send me._

She had not been able to maintain her threat to withhold the Wedgwood from Paris, in the end, ever the older sister indulging the younger.

_Peggy has just left this city with Rensselaer, having spent three weeks with us after making their peace with our father, and it is strange to find myself without either of you, to think we three are all grown married ladies now, and two of us mothers! She is in good health and spirits, but she bears no marks of usefulness to the Commonwealth. Though my dear Philip grows every day and leaves babyhood further behind him, I also continue idle. But pray, my lady, what are you about all this time with your grave inquiries about the success of your sisters’ labors whilst saying nothing of your own? What are we to make of this?_

 

She rolls her eyes as if Eliza were there to see her. She’d wanted to know what motivated Peggy’s elopement, of course, and at least Eliza has answered that question. She wants to be sure their little sister will be happy.

 

 _I pray with all my heart you are happy in Paris, and your new friends kind to you, although selfishly I hope they will not replace your family, in particular your sisters, in your heart._ _Alexander and I often talk about you with great pleasure and earnestly wish that you could again be added to our little circle. We will not despair of meeting again soon on one or the other side of the Atlantic._

Oh, she hopes so. She would be perfectly happy with Eliza at her side, her sister's presence one of a very few things that could improve upon her Parisian life.  

 

_God bless you, my very dear sister. Embrace my darling namesake for me, and remember me affectionately to Laurens._

_Ever your loving sister E. Hamilton_  

 

She cries and cries when she is done, but for the life of her, she cannot say why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Franklin’s conversation with Angelica arises from things he wrote in actual letters to John after his trip to France as envoy extraordinary (about John being a potential successor) and William Carmichael (about John having caused the French ministers offense by his brusque behavior and him having been mortified and having had to work to smooth it over).
> 
> \- Parts from both Alexander's and Eliza's letters come from letters they actually wrote to Angelica.
> 
> \- EDIT: Cannot believe I forgot this, but check out "precious and never to be forgotten scenes" for deleted and/or AU scenes from this universe: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10539027/chapters/23270538
> 
> \- Tumblr is your3fundamentaltruths


	16. Part 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It may be weak, unmanly, but he feels his throat tighten and his eyes prick when his father alights from the carriage, their reunion finally a reality.

It may be weak, unmanly, but he feels his throat tighten and his eyes prick when his father alights from the carriage, their reunion finally a reality.

 

After a year’s imprisonment and nearly two seeking to recover his health, his father is a brittle, ruined man, looking his nearly sixty years and then some, when not even his deep grief over Mother’s death stamped him half so visibly. 

 

Patty and Polly hang back with Angelica and Lizzie. His sisters have been recently enough with Father in the countryside, while  _their_  separation may be measured in years.

 

“Son,” his father says hoarsely, putting a hand on each arm and looking up at him, an uncharacteristically affectionate greeting. “So often I feared I would not see you on the other side of the war –”

 

_. . . No man can doubt of your bravery, your own good sense will point out the distinction between courage & temerity, nor need I tell you that it is as much your duty to preserve your own health & strength as it is to destroy an enemy . . . _

 

“And near the end . . . suffice to say, I thank the Almighty with all my heart that my apprehensions came to naught.”

 

_. . . If I were free, I would, at all hazard, lame and incapable as I am of alert traveling, fly to assist you as your nurse until you should be fully recovered. I regret that at this distance I can only help you with prayers to the Almighty disposer of all events . . ._

 

Before he can get a word in edgewise, his father, even more uncharacteristically, embraces him.

 

When Father finally releases him, he manages, very quietly, “I am very happy, and very much relieved, to have you here at last. I only – I only wish Harry were here to complete our family circle –”  _And_  – He shakes the intrusive thought. “But that day shall come soon enough.”

 

“And our family circle has grown. So much has changed since I’ve seen you last, Jack.”

 

“Indeed,” he says with a faint smile, and a glance to Angelica to come forward.

 

“Welcome, sir, it is –”

 

Father shakes his head. “And you are my new daughter – well, not new, certainly, but new to me. We shall not stand on formality; you will call me Father.”

 

Angelica looks taken aback, but nods. “I – that would be lovely.”

 

“And speaking of lovely,” Father begins, smiling slightly.

 

Angelica returns the smile. “Your granddaughter. But we try not to make her vain.”

 

“You will have to try very hard, I am sure, if she goes on as she has begun. I expect it has been said a thousand times, but she is very like Polly.”

 

“I am beginning to think in temperament also,” he interjects wryly.

 

“While many parents wish upon their children children just like themselves, I never have and do not envy you it, Jack.” It’s said with a very slight smile.

 

Somewhere behind him, Polly huffs, and he cannot bite back his own smile.

 

\---

 

They are sitting in the parlor, he with a nearly unbearably dry treatise recommended by Alexander and Angelica with a long-awaited letter from Eliza, read and re-read so many times it’s worn where it folds, in one of those rare quiet times they have had alone in daylight hours since his sisters’ and then Father’s arrival, when Angelica clears her throat.

 

He looks up at her, curious, when she says nothing.

 

She folds the letter and sets it aside. “Christmas is nearly here.”

 

He nods.

 

“There’s – well, there’s a guest that won’t quite arrive in time.” She smiles, a hint of nervousness to it, but doesn’t elaborate.

 

“Then when will he? Or she?” he adds, thinking of her sisters then. He knows she misses them terribly. Unlikely as it is that Alexander would willingly part with his wife, perhaps Rensselaer is amenable –

 

“Six months or so.”

 

“Six months?” he echoes, brow furrowing. “It will be nearly next Christmas by then.”

 

She looks faintly frustrated and begins again, haltingly, “Well . . . it can’t be any sooner.” She gestures vaguely, meaninglessly, then shakes her head. “I’m –” She draws out the _m_ before completing the thought. “Pregnant _._ ”

 

She’s . . .

 

Another child. A  _child_.

 

He wouldn’t have guessed, because she seems well enough. When his mother carried his youngest siblings, she always seemed so worn, exhausted by it all; Cook was ever anxious, sending cup after cup of piping hot peppermint tea to her room and trying to figure out what could possibly tempt her fickle appetite. “How do you feel?” he finally asks.

 

She shrugs. “Well enough. A bit tired, sometimes queasy, but nothing terrible. Better than the first time, and even then . . . well, I think Eliza half-hated me because I made it look much easier than it was for her.”

 

“Good. That you feel all right.”

 

She bites her lip. “And?”

 

“And?” he echoes uncertainly.

 

“What do you think?”

 

Of course. He offers a smile. “As a good friend once told me, Lizzie must have siblings or else she will tyrannize us all.”

 

“Let’s take this one at a time.” Angelica sounds slightly alarmed.

 

“He wished to see me a paterfamilias surrounded by a numerous progeny,” he continues grandly, now rather enjoying teasing her.

 

She gives him a quizzical look. “That doesn’t sound like Lafayette –”

 

“Alexander. One of the letters he wrote while I was in South Carolina. Called Lizzie a darling tyrant.”

 

“Oh, now I remember. It was, and remains, alarmingly accurate.”

 

“But Lafayette has probably said something similar.” Lizzie has everyone here in her thrall but young Georges. “The next one has quite a lot to live up to.”

 

Angelica smooths a hand over her front with uncharacteristic self-consciousness. “I think he, or she, will be up to the task.”

 

\---

 

“I never did think my wild boy would learn to sit still,” says Father with unusual fondness from the door of his study one gray winter’s day. “And look at you now.”

 

It’s a neat trick, trying to draw the view out his study window like this, with Lizzie, who is very interested in the proceedings, wriggling in his lap and demanding “Daddy draw!” whenever he pauses to consider his subject. 

 

He’d been prepared to go outside, feeling intolerably cooped up, their social life rather diminished of late by Angelica’s recent fatigue. But he had come across Lizzie with her nurse on the way out. Lizzie had called for him and of course he’d picked her up, and her nurse had given him a look dubious enough to do his wife _and_ his sisters proud when he said he was going out. Admittedly, the weather wasn’t very fine – there was even a rare dusting of snow – and his daughter was clinging to him quite determinedly. So back to his study it had been.

 

“Perhaps I’ll look back at this as her first lesson,” he says idly.

 

Father shakes his head slightly. “No, I don’t think she will inherit that particular skill. Even when you were that small, you’d try to take the pencil out of your mother’s hand. You were never content to watch. Patty, on the other hand . . . She was placid as could be. She would watch your mother draw the plants and the trees, and you’d run about the gardens, sticking your nose every which way, inspecting everything, and –” Father clears his throat, reverie abruptly ended. “She will take other things from you, of course, and you will raise her to be a righteous woman –”

 

\---

 

 _Thou shall not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I the LORD thy God_ _am_ _a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth_ _generation_ _of them that hate me_ _. . ._

 

As a boy studying the Scriptures, it seems dreadfully unfair to him that their Heavenly Father should punish innocents for the sins of their forebears. His tutor so fails to assuage his indignation that he brings it up when Father quizzes him on his lessons.

 

“It is the will of God,” Father says simply. Even for him, he looks unusually solemn. “That is why I strive to be a righteous man, Jack. Not only for the salvation of my own soul, but for yours.”

 

\---

 

“Jack?”

 

He shakes his head, blinks away the memory. “I apologize, I was woolgathering a moment. Well, remembering something very wise you told me when I was a boy.”

 

“Oh? I didn’t think you listened so closely.” There’s the faintest edge of a smile on his father’s face.

 

“Sometimes,” he says quietly, with a glance down at Lizzie, and doesn’t elaborate.

 

\---

 

It’s different this time; this child feels real from the start in a way Lizzie did not.

 

He’d looked Angelica up and down when he’d first seen her again, when he’d fetched her at her father’s for the necessary elopement. She’d looked the same but for the fact that she seemed to have lost color, which he attributed to nerves. Otherwise, the same slender Miss Schuyler he’d walked down the aisle for Alexander’s wedding ceremony and bedded after his wedding supper. Later, when she’d been out of sight, she’d often been out of mind.

 

But now, with Angelica at his side rather than thousands of miles away, he can see early on the evidence of the child growing within her, notice how her belly begins to curve gently beneath her thin nightgowns.

 

One day, when he is halfway-asleep, he can feel her sit up suddenly. Her voice is uncharacteristically soft yet excited when she says his name once, then a second time.

 

He turns on his side toward her and nearly asks if she is all right, but then he blinks awake properly and looks up at her.

 

She isn’t looking at him, but rather down, cupping her belly protectively. Her smile is, uncharacteristically, nearly beatific.

 

Looking at her, smiling that way and swathed in white silk, a vivid contrast against her dark complexion, he can understand why the Catholics worship the Virgin Mother. He doesn’t dare break the silence, but he must. “Yes?”

 

She turns her head to look at him. Equally uncharacteristically, her smile turns shy. “Give me your hand –”

 

He nods, reaching forward to extend it, but not quite –

 

She places his hand firmly against her belly. “Can you feel that?”

 

He’s not touched her, other than the incidental touches of a life together, since she told him. “What –” She moves his hand to the left and then he feels _something_ , even over the fabric. “Is that –”

 

Smile widening, she nods.

 

“Kicking,” he breathes in wonder. He finds himself smiling back. “Does that – does it hurt at all?”

 

“No. Later it will. Or at least it did last time. When Lizzie was bigger, I felt rather battered. Near the end, I could actually see a little foot or fist when she moved,” she says reminiscently. “The funny thing is that I felt – _was_ – enormous, but once she was actually born, I kept thinking to myself how small she was, how light and fragile in my arms.” She smiles softly at the memory. “This is earlier than someone else could feel it last time. They say that’s how it usually –”

 

“Was Peggy very jealous? You’ve said she doesn’t like to be left out of things.”

 

Angelica gives him a perplexed look. “Hmm?”

 

He shrugs. “I just assumed Eliza would have been the first –”

 

She looks down a moment, where her hand still rests over his from when she’d first guided it to the right spot. “It was Alexander, actually.”

 

Had she let herself imagine a moment –

 

Had Alexander? He remembers the great affection with which Alexander has always spoken of Lizzie in his letters, the strange gleam in his eye when he arrived at Yorktown and told him how Angelica fared. The fact that Lizzie had _called him_ –

 

“I was waiting in their parlor for Eliza to come back from the shops when it happened and I was surprised, of course, it felt very different, you know. Well of course you don’t know,” she corrects herself instantly. “You couldn’t. I must have made some sort of noise, because Alexander hurried out of his office to see if anything was the matter.”

 

“Oh. Of course.”

 

The gentle flutters have subsided. Perhaps the baby has fallen asleep, as they ought.

 

He carefully pulls his hand out from under hers.

 

\---

 

“Was it very bad, with Lizzie?” he asks over supper one night when Angelica winces at a particularly hard kick. His mother hadn’t had an easy time of it.

 

“You may want to flee the premises when the baby comes.”

 

He coughs, nearly choking on his wine. “I beg your pardon?”

 

“I cursed you so fluently and vividly in English and French that I shocked poor Eliza nearly to death even though she could only understand half of it. At one point, she thanked God that you were not near at hand because she was convinced I would have done you violence.”

 

He barely restrains himself from muttering an oath. “You _are_ a bloodthirsty woman, aren’t you?”

 

She doesn’t deny it. “I thought she would never regain her normal color.”

 

“She would have been shocked into the grave on a battlefield.”

 

“Not by you, I expect.”

 

He did always bite his tongue when treated for his frequent injuries – literally his lip, bloodying it more often than not, stubbornly refusing to cry out in pain before his comrades. But –

 

“Alexander said you ended up injured half the time and always bore it manfully, never breathed a word or sound of complaint. Was he more generous in his recollections than you deserved?”

 

“Not in that. I bore the rations less manfully, however,” he admits ruefully.

 

“As anyone would have.”

 

“I wrote my father several letters that were less than . . . filial about them, when he was President.”

 

“Lord knows I’m not my most pleasant when I don’t have my morning chocolate and you all spent months eating hardtack and mush if I heard true,” she says sympathetically.

 

He grimaces at the memory.

 

“Oh, don’t look like that; it’s in the past now,” she reminds him.

 

And the present could certainly be worse. ~~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- John’s memories of Henry’s letters, while intended here to be 1) from earlier in the war and 2) after he was injured at the Combahee are actually all from a letter Henry wrote him after he was injured at Germantown (the latter part with slight alteration, to reflect the fact that Henry was imprisoned in the Tower of London while John was recovering in South Carolina). I know Henry obviously has his issues, but I found the latter part touching; it put me in mind of Ham nursing Philip back to health when he was very ill. 
> 
> \- Check out _precious and never to be forgotten scenes_ for deleted and/or AU scenes from this universe: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10539027/chapters/23270538
> 
> \- Also check out my modern AU series loosely based on _he takes (and he takes and he takes)_ , _my dearest, angelica_ (http://archiveofourown.org/series/710673). Right now, I've got 2 collections of scenes: one is _here's looking at you, kid_ (http://archiveofourown.org/works/10702308/chapters/23705682), focusing on Peggy and Stephanie (Stevie) van Rensselaer (female version of Steven), and the other is _they just got law degrees and updated their bag of tricks_ (http://archiveofourown.org/works/10714680/chapters/23872149), focused on John and Angelica.
> 
> \- Tumblr is your3fundamentaltruths


	17. Part 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My dear Angelica,” calls a woman, clearly one of their countrywomen, from across the room at a rather large crush one evening.
> 
> He’d expected it to be so, and had expressed some concern about Angelica attending, but she enjoys socializing with the _crème de la crème_ of the French aristocracy and said she could not bear to be cooped up. He’d given in when she called him a mother hen; that could not be borne.
> 
> “Mary.” Angelica gives her an uncharacteristically tight smile when she draws closer, proffering her cheek for a kiss.
> 
> “It is so good to see you,” trills the woman. “We have all wondered how you’ve settled in here, and you look very well.”
> 
> “I am enjoying myself tremendously, but before I continue to be unforgivably rude, I must introduce –”
> 
> “Ah, the mysterious Colonel Laurens,” the equally mysterious Mary interrupts. “It is a pleasure to meet you at last, sir.”
> 
> “Likewise, Mrs. –” He noted her wedding ring.
> 
> “Anderson,” Angelica supplies. “Mary Anderson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Looking at the last update date . . . I really didn't mean for it to be this long! Hope there are still people out there with interest in this! Please drop me a line if you're still reading - comments are so motivating :)

At the knock, he answers instinctively without looking up from his papers, “Come in.”

 

The ensuing silence after the door opens is too long, and he turns his head to see Angelica in the doorway, looking rueful. 

 

He follows her gaze to the portrait behind him and considers it, casting a more critical eye upon the painting than he yet has.

 

Perhaps her canvas counterpart may not bear so striking a resemblance to the flesh-and-blood woman before him as she would have wished; it is true that it does not quite capture the eloquence of her eyes or the lively wit that lights her smile. But that would be no easy feat, and it isn’t as though they cannot all look upon the original, and she upon herself in the looking glass. Lizzie, of course, has already grown and changed in the months since the piece was completed, as children do, but it was and remains a fair likeness.

 

Angelica sighs gustily, still saying nothing.

 

Is she perhaps troubled by the notion that Trumbull has misrepresented her to her father? She is divided from him by an ocean and they are not like his family, the Schuylers; they are unused to separation.    

 

Still, it’s a bit late for dissatisfaction; the painting has hung in this spot for months and, at Angelica’s request, he arranged for an identical portrait to be shipped to New York in honor of General Schuyler’s birthday some months ago. It is likely already in his father-in-law’s possession, hung in pride of place. “It can’t be as bad as all that, surely?” He doesn’t want to be too complimentary if she thinks it a poor likeness, but –  

 

“No, of course not,” Angelica agrees instantly, before quickly changing the subject. “You ought to go to Calais.”

 

His father is to go see the Jays off to Calais and invited him to accompany him, and Angelica wishes him to join the party because the Jays have been kind friends, and Jay will be Secretary of Foreign Affairs, so they would do well to remain in his good graces.

 

He hasn’t rejected the invitation outright, but he shakes his head. 

 

Angelica looks at him thoughtfully. “If you’re sure.”

 

He nods. “I’d prefer to remain.”

 

\---

 

“My dear Angelica,” calls a woman, clearly one of their countrywomen, from across the room at a rather large crush one evening.

 

He’d expected it to be so, and had expressed some concern about Angelica attending, but she enjoys socializing with the  _crème de la crème_  of the French aristocracy and said she could not bear to be cooped up. He’d given in when she called him a mother hen;  _that_ could not be borne.

 

“Mary.” Angelica gives her an uncharacteristically tight smile when she draws closer, proffering her cheek for a kiss.

 

“It is  _so_ good to see you!” trills the woman. “We have all wondered how you’ve settled in here, and you look very well.”

 

“I am enjoying myself tremendously, but before I continue to be unforgivably rude, I must introduce –”

 

“Ah, the mysterious Colonel Laurens,” the equally mysterious Mary interrupts. “It is a pleasure to meet you at last, sir.”

 

“Likewise, Mrs. –” He noted her wedding ring.

 

“Anderson,” Angelica supplies. “Mary Anderson.”

 

Mrs. Anderson’s eyes rake over him as he releases her hand. “It is truly astounding.”

 

“What is?” he asks, bemused.

 

“How strongly your daughter resembles you, sir,” she says sweetly.

 

Before he can say anything in response, Angelica interjects, “Darling,” startling him. She never – “I feel rather light-headed. I think I would benefit from some air.”

 

“Of course,” he agrees instantly, taking her arm and nodding a swift farewell to Mrs. Anderson. Angelica is nearly shaking as he ushers her to the nearest bench. “Would you like me to get you a drink? Or perhaps a phys –”

 

“I’m not about to faint. I swear,” she insists impatiently.

 

“You’re shaking.” He frowns, noting the tense lines of her face with no little concern.

 

“Because I’m  _angry_.” She smiles then, but it is a cool, mocking thing. “At least no one will question  _this_ baby’s paternity.”

His own sudden anger surprises him. It’s patently absurd anyone would question  _Lizzie’s_ origins; save her dark eyes, Lizzie looks like  _him_ , looks just as he remembers Polly did. Hadn’t Mrs. Anderson herself just commented on it? Hadn’t a dozen other people, including Patty and his father? “Who did that, exactly?”

 

“Before, in New York –” She looks away, focusing on some point in the distance. “No one said anything to my face, because I’m  _war hero_   _Philip Schuyler’s_  daughter, because they were afraid of my father’s clout and his money, but they said awful things behind my back that well-intentioned _friends_  –” she puts a sardonic emphasis on the word – “would tell me about. Friends like Mary Anderson.” She takes a breath. “It was a way to knock me down another peg or three when I was already at a disadvantage.”

 

He blurts out the question before he can stop himself. “Do you hate me for it? For staying away so long?”

 

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

 

He swallows. “Yes.

 

“I don’t. But I’d be lying if said I didn’t then.”

 

He flinches; he can’t help it.

 

“Nearly did, really,” she corrects. “Because I was glad to be with my family. It just – It was bad enough facing my father after you brought me back. He’s no fool; he understood the need to act quickly, but he was so angry that I hadn’t said a word to him, that I’d been so reckless. I had to face that alone, because I was still in his house, under his roof. I had no idea what I was meant to do, what you planned to do after the war, if I should set up house in New York –”

 

“You never asked –”

 

“You barely said three words to me,” she retorts. “Only about the financial arrangements you were going to make so I wouldn’t lack for money, your will –”

 

“Those are important things,” he says weakly. Those were the things he’d had to take care of before returning to headquarters. There had been so little time to waste.

 

She shakes her head. “They are, but that’s not the point. So I stayed, and eventually my father came to terms with everything. But after Yorktown, all the officers and their men started to come home. It was fine that you decided to fight on. It was honorable, even, that rather than rest on your laurels you wanted to defend your home, to drive the last redcoats out of South Carolina once and for all. All well and good. But as soon as you were well, you returned here without once showing your face in New York, or sending for us, or anything like that. And it was . . . humiliating. You might not have meant to, but you let me be humiliated.”

 

He hadn’t meant to, because he didn’t care enough to think how his actions would affect her, affect their daughter. He owed it to his father and his country to accept his diplomatic mission, and it was perfectly reasonable to have her remain in the country while he went abroad –

 

But he did not even show her the courtesy of a chance to have a say in the decision, let alone to make her own choice. She’d made it later, despite him and his indifference.

 

She squares her shoulders. “By the time I turned up in Paris, I couldn’t take it anymore. It had been two years, and I didn’t want to give you a chance to find another pressing duty to the nation that needed fulfilling in a conveniently distant locale.”

 

She’d never said anything in her letters. Those dry, wooden things were often only postscripts to Alexander’s; how backwards that was, he realizes now. Nor had Alexander, for all his verbosity, ever mentioned how matters stood in New York.

 

It isn’t as if he didn’t know that the gossip in New York City is insidious. He was only ignorant of the fact that they had been objects of it. He swallows painfully. “I know it doesn’t change anything, that I can’t take back what I did or what people said, but I’m sorry.” He gingerly places a hand on her back.

 

“I’m sure you are.” She sighs. “But I’d like to be alone right now.”

 

“I don’t think that’s –”

 

“Just a short while. Then I’d like to go home,” she says firmly. “And not speak of this again.” She does not turn to look at him.

 

Reluctantly, he rises to acquiesce. “Will a quarter-hour suffice?”

 

She nods, still without looking at him.  

 

\---

 

The silence in their carriage is stifling, and they exchange only a perfunctory  _good night_  at the top of the stairs; he knows without being told that he should sleep in his office instead of following her to the bedchamber.  

 

He wonders is she had such usage in mind when she finally saw to the settee.

 

\---

 

When Shrewsberry awakens him with a message from Franklin in the morning, he would swear there is judgment in the man’s eyes.

 

Of course, to know to find him in his office at such an early hour, Berry must have been told. That means the entire household knows something is amiss and Berry must assume he is at fault for any trouble.

 

It matters not at all that his servant isn’t wrong, he tells himself, focusing on the note. The early summons concerns him; Franklin would typically be recovering from the previous evening’s soiree for hours yet.

 

 

\---

 

Franklin is solemn when he arrives. “Laurens,” he begins very gravely, gesturing for him to sit. “I’ve received word from Congress, regarding my successor as minister.”

 

Is he not well-pleased? That bodes ill, does it not? “Has someone been named?”

 

Franklin smiles, sphinxlike. “Yes, at last.”

 

He clears his throat when Franklin does not continue. “Congratulations, sir. I know you’ve been awaiting word most eagerly.”

 

“And you have not been,” Franklin says wryly. “I will not accept your congratulations, for it is I that ought to offer them to you. You will replace me, if you will accept the commission.”

 

“Succeed, sir, not replace,” he says instinctively.

 

Franklin waves a dismissive hand.

 

“Thank you,” he says, trying to infuse the words with some semblance of humility.

 

Another dismissive hand. “There remains one small matter and I tell you this, my boy, only because I wish to see you a success. You should know that you nearly lost the place to Mr. Jefferson.”

 

“Jefferson?” he echoes. Had Jefferson been a contender for the post?

 

“Good man, a patriot, quite the intellect and a fine writer, to be sure – the Declaration is a masterpiece –”

 

“It is; my wife particularly admires it,” he interjects, by rote.

 

“But he knows nothing of foreign affairs,” Franklin adds. It is the kindest criticism he can make.

 

They could say Jefferson is a coward, fleeing the Virginian capital ahead of British invaders rather than remaining to fight, but they will not.

 

Of course, Jefferson had also refrained from leading men to their deaths in the vain, selfish, foolhardy pursuit of personal glory. Instead, he’d managed to make himself a name eternal without bloodshed.

 

Perhaps the pen really is mightier than the sword.

 

“’Tis only that he has influential friends who wish to ease his melancholia after the loss of a beloved wife to childbirth,” Franklin continues. “Provide him a change of scene, I am told.” He clears his throat. “However, your own experience here won the day and they voted Jefferson to succeed Adams at The Hague, for Adams is to go to London. I expect he will visit before going on to his post.”

 

“I see,” he says quietly.

 

“I have no doubt you will continue to serve our country well,” Franklin says just as quietly.

 

“Thank you, sir.”

 

“Only be sure to prove me right for the benefit of those who might have deprived you of the position.”

 

“I will certainly endeavor to.”

 

“And you will give my regards to your wife.”

 

He smiles thinly. “As always, sir.”

 

Angelica is abed when he returns from Passy, and he doesn’t have the heart to wake her, even to tell her they have achieved their ends, not least because her displeasure with him has surely not dissipated.

 

It’s rather early, but he helps himself to the claret before settling down in his office and losing himself in his thoughts.

 

_. . . You should know that you nearly lost the place to Mr. Jefferson . . ._

 

How disappointed Father would have been! He swirls his drink idly.

 

_. . . We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal . . ._

 

What will Angelica think when he tells her that he has – narrowly – bested her hero? She will be pleased, won’t she? He takes a sip, barely tasting it.

 

_. . . that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness . . ._

 

Lovely words, to be sure, but meaningless, worth no more than the parchment upon which they were written, he thinks cynically, taking another sip and finishing off his glass. It’s not the best vintage, but it’ll do for a second glass.

 

(In his less cynical moments, he thinks the words aspirational, but this is not such a moment.)

 

\---

 

Marie’s look is not unlike Berry’s when she enters his office that evening with a supper tray to see him stretched indolently on the settee. “Mrs. Laurens wishes to see you when you are done,” she says briskly.

 

“Thank you.”

 

The maid nods coolly.

 

He sets to the meal eagerly as soon as he is alone, going so far as to clean his plate with unseemly haste before rising from his desk and, when he reaches their door, he knocks first. “Angelica?”

 

“Come in,” she calls.

 

He enters and stands near her dressing table, feeling acutely out of place.

 

Angelica’s already dressed for bed and gestures for him to sit on the bed, at her feet. She eyes him warily, but she only says, “You can come back.”

 

 _I’m sorry, truly_ , he wants to say, but he bites his tongue. She doesn’t wish to speak of it. Instead, his reply is an inadequate “thank you.” He is about to rise to dress for bed himself, early as it is, but stills when she clears her throat.

 

“Just be sure you don’t leave me behind again,” she says quietly. “Wherever we go next, let’s go on as we have here.”

 

He nods. “Do you have any idea how I should have blundered here without you?” It’s an embarrassing admission, and, he fears, entirely true. 

 

To his surprise and not insignificant chagrin, she laughs. “Franklin has given me some idea.”

 

He groans but can’t quite master a fully serious expression when faced with his wife’s laughing eyes until he recalls the news he must share. “Speaking of Franklin,” he begins with some reluctance. “He summoned me very early this morning.”

 

“What news?” she demands when he doesn’t carry on quickly enough to satisfy her.

 

“We’ll be here some time yet. I’ve been chosen to succeed him.”

 

She frowns. “Then why don’t you look happy? That’s precisely what we were trying to ensure. Have you changed your mind?”

 

“No. It’s only . . . He warned me that I nearly lost out to Jefferson.”

 

Angelica looks dismayed. “And what has Jefferson done to be considered worthy?”

 

“Lose a wife,” he says with unbecoming venom. He realizes the moment he says it it’s an appalling thing to say to _his_ wife. Especially now. It very nearly sounds as if he’s ill-wishing her.

 

“I apologize for not shuffling obligingly off the mortal coil,” she says sardonically before he can get a word in edgewise.

 

“I – that was rather tactless of me. I only – that was what Franklin – I obviously –”

 

“I know –”

 

He hardly hears her next words; it would be –

 

“John, it’s really all right –”

 

He can picture it all too well –

 

“I was only teasing you, of course I don’t –”

 

It’s the thin note of anxiety in her voice that brings him back, and he forces himself to focus on her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t –” He takes a breath. “I wasn’t thinking, and now that I am, I . . . worry.”

 

Her eyes are still too wide, but she takes his hands firmly. “Everything will be fine,” she assures him bravely.

 

“I’ll hold you to that.”

 

“You had better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Franklin’s opinion of Jefferson isn’t necessarily fully reflected here – remember whose perspective we’re seeing this from. (Same, of course, applies for everyone we see from any of our POV characters' perspectives.)


	18. Part 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angelica wakes him sometime before dawn, demanding that he send a servant for the midwife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations in the end notes.
> 
> I’ve been holding this for a while, so really curious what people think!

Angelica wakes him sometime before dawn, demanding that he send a servant for the midwife.

 

He may scare the groom to half to death and certainly exhausts him, for in a fit of panic he sends the poor man back out after he returns with the midwife to fetch Lafayette to keep him company.

 

Lafayette arrives quickly, uncharacteristically disheveled. “Oh, my dear Laurens!” he laughs, with the ease of an eternally confident man. Still he joins John in his office to wait, drinks with him, tries to distract him from his nerves and amuse a fretful Lizzie, who wants only Angelica after driving her nanny nearly to tears with her tantrums, but will settle for her father and her favorite Frenchman.

 

“ _Maman est en train de te donner un petit frère_ ,” Lafayette explains patiently. “ _Et ton papa, il est fou_ _!_ ” he adds mischievously.

“ _Je suis pas. Seulement inquiet_ ,” he corrects in a huff.

 

\---

 

Patty, he knows, has her nose something out of joint now after Adrienne’s arrival a few hours after Lafayette’s, for she sweeps in to take charge, declaring that the birthing room is “no place for an unmarried lady” and insistently shoos Patty away.

                                                              

He sees the way Polly flinches at the sounds that filter down to them in the sitting room and is reminded even this is new to her; their uncle and aunt have no children. “Take her out,” he says brusquely to Patty, unable to watch another wince. “Go shopping. Buy whatever you like on my credit.”

 

Polly scrambles to her feet with an uncharacteristic lack of grace before Patty can react to acquiesce or refuse him. “Do you think Angelica would like anything?” she asks meekly.

 

“She certainly  _deserves_ something,” Lafayette mutters.

 

“Yes. Find something. Very nice, and very expensive,” he adds impulsively.

 

Lafayette gives him a mildly approving look.

 

“Jack,” Patty begins.

 

He cuts her off firmly, “Go. And take Franklin up on his supper invitation.” One he’s forgotten to decline in light of present events.

 

\---

 

His patience thins with every passing hour, culminating in an irritated, illogical rebuke of his ever-amiable friend.

 

Lafayette half-tosses a bored Lizzie in the air, making her giggle, but when he begins to tickle her instead, she shrieks, “ _Oncle! Oncle ‘fette!”_  She still can’t quite manage  _Lafayette_. “ _Arrête, arrête!_ ”

 

“She’ll need to speak English when we go home,” he blurts out peevishly, struggling to make himself heard over Lizzie’s shrieks. He’s being ridiculous. He _knows_ he’s being ridiculous; every well-bred, well-educated child needs to know French.

 

And they’re not even headed home. 

 

Of course, if it had been up to certain members of Congress, they might well be joining Lafayette on his travels homeward bound. He can’t help but scowl at the thought. After all the efforts he’s – _they’ve_ – made, he was nearly displaced as Franklin’s natural successor solely because the cowardly former governor of Virginia is a melancholy widower –

 

If Mrs. Jefferson’s fate, his mother’s fate, should befall his wife . . . He’d been devastated when his mother died, how would Lizzie –

“ _Tais-toi_ ,” Lafayette commands, not even bothering to look at him or call him out on his poor reasoning. “If I am not obeyed, I shall keep this one for myself.  _Virginie a besoin d’une amie et Élisabeth serait très heureuse avec Adrienne et moi, n’est-ce pas, ma bichette_ _?_ ” he asks Lizzie.

 

He sighs, relieved to be forced out of the darkest recesses of his mind, and decides he’ll humor his friend. “I don’t know that Georges will approve –”

 

Two years older, Georges is always a bit impatient when Lizzie is underfoot, even if, so far as he knows, the boy’s never dared play roughly with her after the one time.

 

“But you can discuss it with Angelica. Perhaps she’ll decide two is too much trouble.”

 

“ _Oui_?” Lafayette presses Lizzie.

 

“ _Oui_ ,” she giggles.

 

“You won’t miss me?” he asks his daughter with mock indignation. She would, now.

 

He’s reaching for Lizzie when Adrienne calls for him from the door behind them.

 

“Yes?” Heart pounding, he stands and turns.

 

Adrienne is uncharacteristically disheveled, her normally smooth, sweet voice hoarse. “Come with me.”

 

He obeys, trying not to let his eyes linger over the basin of bloody rags Marie whisks away toward the servants’ stairs.

 

“Bringing life into the world is hard work, but all is well,” Adrienne assures him, as if reading his mind, as she opens the door to the bedchamber. “Try not to stay too long; she will need her rest.”

 

\---

 

His new daughter is perfection in miniature, so small he fears he’ll break her. But her dainty hands are surprisingly strong when she wraps her tiny fist around his little finger. When her eyelids flutter open, he sees that she has his eyes – his mother’s eyes.

 

“She’s quite nearly perfect,” he finally says, looking up from the baby.

 

“Decidedly superior to any other infant of my acquaintance,” Angelica agrees, looking pleased with herself. 

 

She looks well, all things considered, he concludes with no small relief. Wan and more than a little bit weary, but that is perhaps to be expected after the exertion of bringing a human beinginto the world. He shakes the unbidden image of the bloody rags. All is well, Adrienne promised –

 

“Our firstborn excluded, of course,” Angelica adds quickly.

 

“Naturally.” He can’t help but smile then; he must look rather foolish. “You did well, you know.” 

 

“I do.”

 

 _Typical_ , he thinks, fond and amused.

 

“– For your mother?”

 

He blinks. “Hmm?”

 

“Shall we name her for your mother?” Angelica repeats.

 

He looks thoughtfully at his daughter. “Eleanor,” he says slowly, testing it. Perfect. She has their eyes; she’ll have his mother’s name.

 

“I like it,” Angelica says softly.  

 

He’s touched. “What about yours?”

 

“We –” Angelica pauses as she twists the sheets between her fingers, looking down at her hands as though they are suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. “My sisters will see to her,” she mumbles into her lap.

 

“If you’re sure,” he says agreeably. He rather likes the idea of naming the baby for his mother, after all, and the last thing he wants to do is argue with Angelica or otherwise provoke her unnecessarily.

 

She looks up at that, looking rather less pale. “Ask me again how I feel about it in a few months.” She frowns thoughtfully. “No, in a year, at the earliest. I might unman you if you ask before then.”  

 

He raises an eyebrow, torn between amusement and respect and something else he can’t bring himself to examine further.

 

Her lips twitch, and she shrugs. “I’d like to see  _you_ try it, Lieutenant Colonel. I doubt you’d be eager to repeat the experience.” 

 

He nods, silently conceding the point. It is an entirely different sort of battle, but a battle all the same, and one for which women are uniquely suited. If the propagation of the human race were left to his sex, man would not be long for this world. “Quite right. I will endeavor to hold my tongue.”

 

“Very good. Although you’d do better to endeavor to –” She shakes her head. “I want Lizzie, if you please,” she says briskly. “Have her brought up.”

 

He frowns. “As you just alluded to, you’ve had a rather long and trying day. You need your rest, and I hardly think –”

 

“Just a minute,” she interrupts. “I’ll rest well once I’ve seen her –”

 

“Angelica –”

 

“ _Please._ ”

 

It’s so uncharacteristically heartfelt he can’t bring himself to argue further, to steel his too-soft heart against the plea in her tired eyes. It might be for her own good, but who is he to deny such a simple request, today of all days?

 

Lizzie is brought up at once and climbs into the bed with her mother despite his – too-gentle, he chides himself when he sees Angelica wince slightly – admonitions.

 

But Angelica at once seems to forget whatever pain Lizzie’s careless clambering caused her, pulling her close enough to make Lizzie squirm, loosening her grip only after she’s planted a half-dozen kisses on the crown of her head, an unusually effusive display of maternal affection for her. Then, with Lizzie still nestled close, she gestures for him to return the baby to her, which he does with no little reluctance.

 

Lizzie, it quickly becomes apparent, is not entirely enamored of the little stranger who had until very recently kicked at her from inside Mama’s belly.

 

“This is your sister. Her name is Eleanor. What do you think of her, hmm?” Angelica prods when Lizzie remains silent.

 

Lizzie shrugs. “She’s small.”

 

“You were that small. I could hold you just so.”

 

Lizzie remains unconvinced, if the dubious expression so very reminiscent of Angelica herself is any indication.

 

Angelica only laughs, eyes warm, and kisses her forehead.

 

\---

 

“She’s so small,” he tells Lafayette helplessly, echoing Lizzie, when he finally emerges from the birthing room with his daughters to introduce the younger to his friend. “I half-fear I’ll break –”

 

“They are always that small.”

 

 _Not that I would remember._ The last newborn infant he’d seen was Polly, nearly a decade and a half ago, as they sit down. Something tightens painfully in his chest at the thought, even tighter when Lizzie, having settled herself beside him, leans over to touch her baby sister’s cheek. In that moment, he is very thankful that he survived the war. 

 

There is something far-off and wistful in Lafayette’s smile that seems not entirely suited to the occasion as he looks down at the girls.

 

“You seem very pensive for a man in such company.”

 

“It is no matter,” Lafayette mutters, voice uncharacteristically rough, not taking his eyes off the girls.

 

“Laf?” he prods, concerned.

 

Lafayette cuts a quick look at him then, and he sees his friend’s eyes are bright with tears. It is but a moment; Lafayette has already fixed his gaze firmly on the girls again. “I imagine my Henriette was just so with Anastasie,” he mumbles.

 

“Oh,” he says softly. He remembers the day Lafayette received the news, the tear-streaked face and red-rimmed eyes his friend had tried to hide when he’d come into his tent. “I’m –”

 

Lafayette cuts him off, “Not today. This is a happy day,  _mon ami_.”

 

A proper sentiment, but just then Eleanor sees fit to contradict his friend and begins to fuss.

 

As if drawn to the sound of an unhappy infant, Adrienne reappears at once to collect the baby, murmuring gentle nothings to Eleanor as she carries her away.  

  

\---

 

Once his sisters have returned and had their chance to see Eleanor, Lizzie has been seen to sleep, their friends have taken their leave, and he is assured both Angelica and the baby are resting comfortably, he retreats to the study to write. He ought to write to his father first, by rights, but there is another letter he has meant to write for some time that suddenly flows easily.

_My dear Hamilton,_

_I cannot let slip the opportunity that our friend’s imminent departure offers me to drop you a line. Of public affairs, there is no need to write you, as he will furnish you more ample information than I possibly can._

It is unfair to Lafayette to impose upon him the role of bearer of bad news, but he will not sully this particular letter with intelligence that he knows will disappoint their friend. For all that it is a coup for him and therefore, he hopes, Alexander will be pleased for his sake, it is also an extension of the European sojourn. Of course, Alexander may well have learned of it already, or will have learned of it by the time Lafayette reaches their shores.

_You will have to forgive me for my late inattention, my friend. I have been, as well you know, what you and my wife call your own, that is, lazy at the pen, but I could not neglect to write you upon the present occasion._  

_While I am not yet surrounded by the_ numerous  _progeny you wish me, you needn’t fear your niece’s tyranny any longer, for she now has a sister with whom she must share our affections. The new arrival has been named Eleanor for my dear mother, although it must be said that she has more of the Schuyler look than her sister._ _It is very strange to think this small creature will soon follow the elder in walking, talking, becoming entirely her own person. A grand adventure, to be sure one very different from those of old, but one I am glad – gladder than I can express, my friend – to witness from its inception._

_You will be pleased also to hear Angelica fares very well and joins in love to the family and in wishing her sister well over her trying time._

She did not directly say such, but she should hardly be bothered at this hour, and he knows he can safely impute such sentiments to her. 

 

With some hesitation, he concludes the letter:  _In closing I wish also to take this occasion to remind you, dear boy, that however indolence or accident may interrupt our intercourse, nothing will interrupt our friendship._

Adieu.  _I remain, as ever, your very affectionate John Laurens_

 

\---

 

He was glad of the settee in his study the night before; Angelica deserves her privacy to recuperate. His neck, however, is less glad of it when he rises in the morning.

 

He is still attempting to ease its stiffness as he follows Marie, who carries Angelica’s breakfast tray, because now he can be sure he is not disturbing her; she would not have called for the meal if she was not awake and disposed to eat it.

 

“Thank you,” she says to Marie, who bobs a curtsey. One wouldn’t know she’d endured an ordeal just yesterday looking at her.

 

“Good morning. How did you sleep?” he asks when they are alone. She looks well, and rested.

 

“Well, for the most part. Better than you, I expect.”

 

“I certainly hope so. You had a rather more tiring day yesterday.”

 

Angelica laughs, just a bit. “It would be churlish to deny it.”

 

“It would. Now don’t let me stand between you and your breakfast; it won’t do to let it go cold.”

 

She sets to her food with not inconsiderable gusto. “I expect the baby will want me soon,” she says between mouthfuls about halfway through the meal. “Be sure to see Lizzie when you go down; we don’t want her to feel forgotten.”

 

He frowns. “Who could forget her?”

 

“No one, but the reminder would serve her well; she’s not exactly delighted to have someone to share with, and being the eldest is of course quite the responsibility –”

 

“She’ll come ‘round,” he says confidently. “Didn’t we?” he adds, less so, at Angelica’s skeptical look.

 

“You were the  _heir_ ,” she says, with the haughtiest emphasis imaginable. “You were always going to be attended to.”

 

He wasn’t always, but the edge is dulled enough that he doesn’t flinch at the oversight. The memories of the elder siblings he lost as a child faded in time, as childhood memories do; he can scarcely recall their faces now –

 

There’s a knock at the door, followed by the nanny bearing a whimpering Eleanor, his cue to leave. 

 

\---

 

After breaking his fast, he retreats to his study with Lizzie trailing after him. Normally he would require privacy to better focus on his correspondence, but he suspects Angelica is right; his daughter needs his attention more than he needs his silence, and it is no weighty thing he is to write, no public affair, but merely good news of the private sort to be shared with a beloved parent.

 

Lizzie does prove to be a distraction, but not in the way that he expected; he is caught in recollection of the last such letter he wrote to his father, without having laid eyes on the child of whom he wrote.

 

\---

 

_October 1781_

 

_My dear father,_

_I thank you for your kind favor of the 29th of July. It has been my ill fortune to write all my letters for some time past in very great haste, and this is the case at present, when I would particularly have wished to write deliberately of my efforts to ensure your safety and secure your freedom. I strive tirelessly toward that end, anticipating the happiness which I shall enjoy in embracing you. Thank heaven, our affairs seem to be approaching fast to a happy period._

_I am obliged, my dearest friend and father, to take my leave for the present._   _I commend myself to your love, and my dear father to God’s protection._

Adieu.  _Accept the assurances of filial love and respect of your most affectionate John Laurens_

_Oct. 12. 81_

_I had intended to send this letter this morning, my dear father, but had to set it aside when urgent matters demanded my attention – a fortuitous circumstance, as I may now append auspicious intelligence from N. York. I received this afternoon a letter from my sister-in-law Mrs. Hamilton relaying news of your granddaughter’s birth on the 28th of September. She has been named Elizabeth, for Mrs. H., who writes also that she is a beautiful baby and that my wife is in good health._

 

\---

 

_June 1784_

 

And now he has her here before him, a flesh-and-blood creature who has made his heart her own entire.

 

No, not entire, he supposes, smiling faintly. There is Eleanor now.

 

_My dearest father,_

 

_I hope this letter find you well, passing time pleasantly with your companions at Calais. Pray present my sincere and warm compliments to Mr. & Mrs. Jay if they have not yet departed your company._

_I write to inform you that yesterday evening my wife was delivered of a very fine girl._   _Both are in good health. May it please you also to hear your granddaughter will bear the name of that best and finest of all ladies, my dearly beloved mother . . ._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Maman est en train de te donner un petit frère_ = Mom(my) is going to give you a little brother  
>  _Et ton papa, il est fou_ = And your daddy, he is crazy  
>  _Je suis pas. Seulement inquiet_ = I am not. Only worried.  
>  _Oncle_ = uncle  
>  _Arrête_ = stop  
>  _Tais-toi_ = shut your mouth  
>  _Virginie a besoin d'une amie et Élisabeth serait très heureuse avec Adrienne et moi, n'est-ce pas, ma bichette?_ = Virginie needs a friend and Elizabeth will be very happy with Adrienne and me, isn't that right, my little doe?  
>  _Oui_ = yes  
>  _Mon ami_ = my friend  
>  For plot purposes, I've delayed Lafayette's 1784 trip to America just a bit.  
> “She has their eyes, after all, and she’ll have his mother’s name” is of course a play on Burr’s line from “Dear Theodosia.”  
> A bit in John’s letter to Alexander is taken from a letter Alexander wrote Richard Kidder Meade and another bit is taken from a letter John Barker Church wrote Alexander.c  
> The 1781 letter from John to Henry is a mix of letters between the two of them with a sentence regarding Yorktown from a letter from Alexander to Eliza plus, of course, some original content.  
> Because this wasn't said earlier, Jay receives the offer to be Secretary of Foreign Affairs a few months earlier than he does historically, hence already departing France in the month that Congress historically made the offer.  
> 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [angel of small death;](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7933024) by [Iadysansa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iadysansa/pseuds/Iadysansa)




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